Bring Me to Life
by Arienne Keith
Summary: *a Vincent Valentine fanfic* A dead woman is sent to kill Vincent Valentine. But who is she, and where did she come from? V x L
1. Part 1: Lab Rat Meets Dead Girl

_**Disclaimer:  
I do not own any of the characters in this fanfiction, nor do I own parts of the storyline that form the framework for this fanfiction. Furthermore, I do not own the storyline portions that are taken directly from the original work; I simply included them in the story to "jog the memory" of fan readers who hadn't seen the show or read the manga for a while. This is simply a not-for-profit fan-made tribute, written purely for the enjoyment of myself and anyone who may happen to stumble across it. However, the personal fan-artwork I have put into this publication is mine alone. Do not attempt to take credit for it.**_

_**It should be noted that I write precisely what I feel like writing. You may review or comment on my works if you wish, but please keep in mind that I will not be making any edits to my stories (unless there is a stray spelling/grammar error somewhere) based upon feedback. I have no need to justify my writings to anyone, for any reason. Why? Because I'm putting in hours at the keyboard just for fun, and letting all of you read this for FREE. You didn't pay for this, so you have no right to tell me how to write. Furthermore, I'm not forcing anyone to read this. If you don't like it, then just read something else. My writings stand on their own – read 'em or leave 'em.**_

Author's biased "ratings" (or maybe I should call them "warnings") on a scale of 1 to 10 (1 being the lowest and 10 being the highest):

Drama rating: 8

Weirdness/randomness rating: 7

Romance rating: 7

Angst rating: 10

Religious content rating: 9

Violence rating: 8

Blood/gore rating: 6

Offensive language rating: 2

Sexual content rating: 0

Mary-Sue-ness rating: 8

The poor creature looked up at her, wagging its tail in friendly greeting. When it didn't receive any response, the dog lowered its eyes and stepped forward to lick her hand. She pulled away and covered her face. The dog set its chin on her knee and looked up at her, wagging its tail. She refused to even look at it.

"You know what he will do to you if you don't do it," a voice said from behind her. Nero had been watching.

"I know," she replied. "I can do it. I just need a moment." She stood and tried to back away from the dog, which only wagged its tail in more excitement as she stood up.

She grabbed her katana and drew the bright blade from its sheath, preparing to carry out the Professor's sentence. The dog sat and cocked its head to the side at the sound of the sword being drawn. The animal looked intelligently curious – completely oblivious to its fate.

She took a deep breath. Her hands shook. They didn't usually shake like this – years of training had taught her a steady hand and perfect accuracy; that sword had become a part of her body. She was quite adept at wielding it. The problem was with her conscience, not her skill. Several more seconds passed and she still hesitated. The dog, bored with the situation, laid down and watched her.

"I overheard him saying he'd be coming down to check on you soon," Nero informed her. Clouds of deep shadow waved about him as he spoke. His voice sounded quite clear despite the band of cloth across his mouth. Other bands stretched across his nose, forehead, and cheeks. He wore a strange black suit with blue glowing lines spanning portions of it. A pair of cruel-looking metal wings were folded up behind his back. His arms were bound in sleeves that were sewn to his suit like a straight jacket. Nero continued, "he's on his way here and will arrive in a matter of minutes. I saw what he did to you last time –"

"I know! I was there! Stop interrupting me!" she said angrily. She walked around to the side of the dog so she could make a cleaner, quicker, painless cut. She raised the katana in the air, and started to drop it, but stopped short of the dog's neck. She pulled away and covered her mouth with one hand. It just wasn't right – the animal had never taken a life, she didn't need it for food, and it wasn't ill and needing to be put out of its misery. As a result of the Professor's experimentation, it was missing one eye and had a few strange masses that had grown underneath its skin – but the growth had been halted and the animal seemed perfectly happy now. They had plenty of supplies with which to feed and care for it. The only reason the creature's death had been ordered was to test her readiness to kill, for the Professor wanted very badly to use such a capable person as an assassin to do his work. This creature was being wasted as a test, nothing more. It was all so stupid . . .

Nero head-butted her so hard that she stumbled and nearly fell. With his arms sealed into his suit, he was unable slap her with his hand. His head worked quite well for the job anyway. "Must I do everything for you?" he snarled quietly. "Your weakness disgusts me."

His sharp ears had caught the sound of footsteps in the distance. The professor would be here very soon. He stepped closer to the hapless creature, and the shadows about him stretched out to engulf it. Nero's "darkness" could absorb or extract almost anything. The creature was engulfed for a moment. It made no noise when it was within the shadows; the entire event seemed so peaceful and quiet. When the shadows receded, the animal lay dead. "Quickly now," he said, "cut off the head or he'll know for sure I did it for you."

Still somewhat shaky, she nodded, and made a clean cut all the way through with her blade. The movement was swift and sure, just as she'd always practiced it before. It was already over; it didn't matter now. She cut with confidence.

A small part of her felt angry at Nero for what he had done, yet she was still very grateful. She knew the Professor would punish her severely if he found out that she had failed yet again after so much training. "Thank you," she said quietly to Nero, not daring to look over at him.

"You have to get past this," he said. "I won't always be here, and you know I can't stop the Professor if he gets angry . . ." Nero's voice trailed off as his mind strayed into memory. Nero was extremely powerful, but not more powerful than his creator. The Professor knew how to control his test subjects. Furthermore, Nero had been defeated mentally long ago. His loyalty to the Professor was absolute.

"I wish he would just choose you to do that sort of work for him," she said, frustrated with the whole situation.

"Look at me, Mordea," he replied softly. "I could never blend in with the people out there."

For a moment she gazed at Nero. The two had been test subjects together for several years. Nero's reclusive nature had kept most people away – and in any case, none of the other test subjects survived. He had been there her whole life, before she was even created by the Professor. She saw him as a brother – her only friend in this dark place. Nero looked just fine to her. She had seen the Professor wreak havoc on so many people's bodies and seen so many awful things, but Nero was healthy. He was also ready to do the Professor's bidding – he was much stronger that way. He was perfect for the job; why couldn't the Professor see that?

"Why not?" she answered. "You're so much stronger; you can do what the Professor asks of you. I don't understand why he didn't choose you."

"You've been living in here too long," he replied. "Don't you remember what the people outside look like? I'm too different from them. I could never get close to a target."

Mordea studied him longer. She had seen the people who lived out on the surface only a few times, but she remembered vaguely what they looked like. They did not have such bands of cloth wrapped about their faces. They did not have steel wings, and their clothes did not glow. Most of all, they were not surrounded by creeping clouds of deep shadow. Nero was indeed different.

She did not like to be reminded of how this situation was continuing to close around her. "Wait for the fall of night, and none of that would matter," she argued.

"That is exactly what smart targets will be ready for; they are ready to defend against it – especially the one the Professor wants. That one is hunted, and he is ready for us. He sleeps with his eyes open and a weapon next to his pillow. He is one of the Professor's more powerful subjects. The creature within him was born out of the same darkness that I wield. He cannot be destroyed by something he is already part of . . ." Nero's voice trailed off. "The one to bring him down must be able to hide in broad daylight, and finish him when he least expects it."

A second later the Professor walked in and looked briefly at the job, then praised Mordea for her progress. "You've come far, Mordea," he said. "I created you to be the perfect machine."

He turned and looked directly at her. It was the first time he'd ever done that . . . as far back as she could remember, the Professor always stood sideways or with his back to her. He had never once looked her in the eye before now. "You took longer than expected to bloom. But today, I believe you're finally ready."

He turned away once more and began to walk down the corridor. "Tomorrow you will leave. That one . . . the one who has angered me . . . will be quashed. He will be ended by your own hand. You should be honored, for tomorrow you will fulfill the purpose for which you were created."

"Professor, sir!" she called after him, keeping her head bowed.

He paused. "Yes?"

"Sir, it's been two weeks now."

"I understand." The Professor resumed his slow walk down the passageway, and Mordea followed him.

She collapsed as they were walking, so the Professor dragged her inactive body the rest of the way. Her energy reserves were almost completely exhausted.

Once they reached the lab, the Professor placed her in a dimly glowing chamber. The light within the chamber increased as the machines surrounding it roared to life. The sound of the motors climbed higher and higher in pitch. When the light grew to a maximum, thousands of exceedingly thin needles shot out of the chamber and into Mordea, piercing her skin at various depths. Her body was barely visible among the needles.

After a few minutes, the needles withdrew. Her skin was red from being stuck in so many places. But after several seconds all redness was gone. She had regained the energy to move, as well as to heal herself. She sat up and climbed out of the chamber.

The Professor shut down the machine and left the lab without a word. He never saw any point in making small talk with his subjects.

Nero popped into the lab after the Professor left. "Mordea," he said, "it's your turn to dispose of the body." Then he turned and left the lab.

It wasn't her turn, and Nero knew it. But she didn't argue. He probably thought that it would help her finally get used to the idea of what she was going to have to do tomorrow.

But it didn't help. She wasn't ready.

* * *

Wrapped in thought as she walked down the street, Mordea barely noticed the busyness of the various shops and eating places. The hurried nature of this business district mattered little to her. She had never been a part of Midgar before and cared little for the doings of the ordinary citizens about her.

Mordea wandered the dirty streets, stopping occasionally to tug at her clothes. They were very different from the loose robes she usually wore about the lab, and were very uncomfortable. Before sending her out into Midgar, the Professor made her put on strange clothes – a long, casual green dress of sorts, and a fuzzy dark grey jacket to make her look as if she were trying to stay warm.

In reality, she needed no warm clothing, for she was always deathly cold, from the inside out. The Professor's experiments had grown her in the lab, but he did not fully awaken her body. She had no heartbeat, and most normal human body functions were absent in her. She did not age, did not require warmth, and did not need to eat or even breathe. What's more, she possessed the ability to regenerate her own injuries. The Professor thought this was wonderful. She was the perfect weapon, for no one can kill what is already dead. Mordea was invincible. What the Professor did not know or even care about was the fact that her undead state brought her such misery.

Being undead meant that she was constantly very cold, yet could do little to warm herself, for her body was not naturally warm. Outer heating sources could only warm her skin and outer extremities, but her core always remained icy-cold, even more so during the winter months. She had no heartbeat – no pulse, no sign of healthy life, no comforting _thump-thump_ when she rested her hand upon her own chest. It felt empty and stagnant inside. There were times when she moved about and tried to shake things up to rid herself of this flat, settled, stagnant feeling, but nothing helped. It always seemed as if her insides had sunk into her legs and feet – which was understandable, since all her blood had settled there when it was not given any cause to move.

The only thing required to keep her healthy was the chamber, which used many needles to deliver nutrients to her muscles, a few internal organs, and other "critical" body systems. It made sure her muscles and nerves had enough energy to function. Without these treatments she would eventually run out of energy and cease to function. It was "most efficient," according to the Professor. Her muscular/skeletal structure and nervous system were the only things required for her to think and fight, and that was all that mattered to him.

Mordea's existence stretched on, and she saw many of her fellow test subjects die after undergoing too many gruesome experiments. But she always kept going. The Professor continued to play with her as well, testing the limits of her "invincibility." The experiments were so painful . . . years stretched on and the Professor always found more ways to "test" his amazing creation. Since she could not die, she proved to be his favored test subject for the worst sorts of experiments – experiments that would kill an ordinary test subject. Limbs were removed and internal organs were severely damaged to see how her natural regeneration ability worked. Fortunately for Mordea, it worked quite well. He once tried to place enhanced, artificially grown organs within her to see if they would regenerate as well once they'd been within her body for a while. But her body never incorporated them, and when they failed to regenerate, he removed them. Her own natural organs were able to regrow themselves within the empty spaces. His efforts to protect her nervous system (for mobility's sake) also kept her five senses very much alive. Because of the manner in which her nerves were preserved, she could not be anesthetized properly. When an artificial – albeit much stronger – skeletal structure was placed within her, she felt every moment of it.

Her fellow test subjects had a lucky way of escape; they could die. However, her regenerative ability made her immortal. The brutality of the experiments had proven that time and time again. Suicide was impossible. She accepted her undead state without question.

Accepting her position as a lab rat was more difficult. She had succeeded in escaping many times, but the Professor always tracked her down somehow. She suspected there was a tracking device hidden somewhere within her body. Then, the last time she escaped and was recaptured, he had come up with a new form of punishment. She never tried to run away again.

This last thought snapped her focus back to her mission: she was determined to do what the Professor said and get it all over with. The Professor had always told her that she had been created for the purpose of hunting down and killing this specific target. When she completed her life's purpose, he would end her existence as a reward. No more tests, no more torture, no more pain. She wasn't sure how he was going to do it – it was his secret "trump card" that he refused to tell her about – but she would no longer have to suffer pacing the lonely world as one undead. She could become nothing and cease to exist. She would finally be laid to rest, quickly and painlessly. That was her payment for completing the assignment: ultimate escape.

It suddenly occurred to her that finding her target would take a very long time if she simply wandered the streets looking about for him. Grabbing the arm of a nearby pedestrian, she asked, "what is the best way to find someone in this city?"

Unaccustomed to Mordea's strange tone, harsh stare, and stiff grip, the man struggled and leaned away. "Try a phone book," he answered, voice trembling.

"Where do I find a phone book?"

"At a pay phone, like the one behind you." As she released his arm, he made a wide arc about her and hastily continued on his way.

She turned around and picked up the book inside the booth, flipping through the pages. It didn't take her long to gain a rudimentary understanding of the book's function. She began looking for the name of her target. His name was not in there. However, the Professor had given her a list of the names of the people with whom the target had associated himself.

As she unfolded the list, a photo fell out. The Professor had given her an old picture of the target for identification. When he had first handed it to her, she had stared at it for a long time – long enough to earn a sharp "get moving!" from the Professor. Nonetheless, she couldn't help that strange feeling that came over her when she saw the photo. The target looked oddly familiar, and part of her felt sad when she thought about it. She felt very sorry for him. He looked like a nice person . . . the kind of person who should never have had to cross paths with the Professor.

Mordea picked up the phone and dialed the number for Cloud Strife. No sound came from the phone. After accosting another passerby, she gained information on how to use a pay phone – and some spare change to operate it as well. She dialed the number again, only to be directed to leave a voice message, which she did not do.

However, Tifa Lockhart picked up her phone. "Who is this?"

"I'm looking for Vincent Valentine. Can you tell me where to find him?"

"I'm not sure," Tifa said hesitantly. She was suspicious of the strange caller. "We don't really know where he is. He just sort of disappeared after the last time we saw him. He keeps to himself and never says much."

"Where did you last see him?"

"It's been several years since he was with us. . . after that he just left. He said goodbye to us all and I haven't heard from him since."

"If you could at least take a guess as to where he might be, what sort of place do you think he would stay in?"

"I don't know," Tifa replied, irritated at this stranger's eerie persistence. "Probably someplace where he knows he could never be found."

"Thank you." Mordea hung up the phone.

Lost as to what she should do, Mordea sat down on the sidewalk. She couldn't ask the Professor for advice. However, she did remember him mentioning something about her target being someone who worked for the Turks – President ShinRa's small group of infamous assassins. "All guns and no brains," the Professor had remarked scathingly.

By asking more questions and consulting the phone book again, Mordea made her way to all of the prominent gun shops in Midgar, using the small photo the Professor had given her to ask the shopkeepers if they had seen Vincent Valentine before.

Walking between stores, Mordea suddenly caught sight of her reflection in a shop window. The green dress looked horrible on her. The bright color seemed to accentuate her zombie-like complexion. The cute ruffles and printed "Hello Kitty" design on the front looked particularly odd matched against her unsmiling expression. She was wearing a stranger's suit, a suit she didn't belong in . . . She was an abomination that should never have entered this world . . . She longed to disappear . . .

Suddenly, someone tapped her on the shoulder. "Do you want to live?"

Mordea turned to see where the voice was coming from. A young girl, probably no older than fourteen, was standing there with a book in her hands.

"Do you want to live?" the girl repeated.

_Actually, I had nothingness in mind; life isn't possible for me,_ Mordea thought to herself. "What are you talking about?" she asked the girl.

"It's eternal life," the girl said. "Each of us is sentenced to death in hell when we die, but if you are willing to take the gift that is offered to you, that doesn't have to happen."

Mordea just stared. She had never heard of such a thing. Perhaps the girl was feeble-minded . . .

"And . . . I know a lot of the focus is on avoiding that eternal death . . . but there's so much more to it than that. We are all dead as we walk around here, in these narrow lives. But if you accept the gift, you can truly begin to live, as you never have before. Life won't be easier or better, necessarily . . . but you'll never have to go through anything alone, and you can be assured that everything has a purpose, even if we don't understand it at the moment."

"Live?" Mordea asked.

"Yeah," the girl said, handing her the book she was holding in her hands. "We all screw up because we're not perfect. It is our punishment for the things we do that sentences us to death. If we have no hope, then we are dead, until we see our imperfections and admit that we need help and need to change. God can help you change if you'll let Him. When you let Him change you, you become . . . alive."

The girl opened the book that Mordea now held in her hands. "Start right here," she said, pointing to a partition of the book that was slightly past the middle. "It's my favorite."

The whole thing sounded too good to be true. She doubted that anything presented in the little book could reverse what the Professor had done to her body. Somehow she doubted that the girl was talking about physical life and death, but even so, the analogy was quite tantalizing . . .

"I have to go." Mordea tucked the book inside her jacket continued on to the next shop – the last one she hadn't checked. As she walked in, the bell hanging on the door handle jingled softly. A moment later, a short, fat man with curly dark hair and a moustache came to the counter. He was busily polishing some piece of metal with an oily rag. He looked her over with some curiosity. "Can I help you?"

She showed the man the picture. "Has anyone by the name of Vincent Valentine come here?"

He glanced at the picture. "I have an employee by that name working here," the man replied, "but he doesn't look much like that picture. Might be a different one." The man backed away and turned his focus once more to his polishing.

"Are you sure?" she asked, handing the picture to the man.

The picture was a weathered photograph of a handsome young man, with shaggy black hair and sharp ocean-blue eyes. He wore a navy-colored suit, and he was not smiling.

The gun shop owner reluctantly took the picture and stared at it. "I suppose that looks a bit like Valentine . . ." his voice trailed off. "But Valentine has red eyes and much longer hair. He's very odd, but a good worker. He knows his stuff. I let him alone and the back of the shop here runs smooth as peaches. Never says anything, just fixes and builds the guns. Comes right on time, leaves right on time, and that's that." The man handed the picture back to her. "Why are you asking?"

Mordea never spoke unless she decided it was necessary – except when the Professor was the one asking questions.

"He's in the back right now if you want to talk to him," the shop owner offered.

Mordea thought for a moment, then shook her head. She thanked the shop owner and walked away, glancing at the shop hours listed on the door as she left.

After she went out the door, the shop owner went to the back to look at Valentine, wanting to tell him that someone had come looking for him. He took a few steps closer to Valentine and began to open his mouth. Valentine looked up at his boss, waiting. The shop owner stopped cold as those fiery red eyes seemed to bore holes right through him. Valentine was a good worker, but very intimidating. The shop owner had actually hired Vincent because he was afraid of what Vincent might do if he'd said no, and was relieved when Vincent turned out to be such a good worker. The little man closed his mouth and went about his business, shaking his head. It was probably nothing; Valentine didn't need to know. He doubted that one such as Valentine would have any problems taking care of himself.

Outside, Mordea fought with herself. What was she to do next? Ambush him on the way to work? That was exactly what he'd be ready for. Nero would be better suited for such a task . . . If she took Nero's suggestion and "got close" to the target as the Professor had designed her to do, maybe it would be easier . . . But what exactly did that mean? How was one so strange as herself supposed to blend into this alien environment and get a hermit (of sorts) to trust her?

Mordea continued walking as night began to fall. When it became dark, she ducked behind an old building and sat. As one undead, she did not require sleep. She just sat and thought about her job. It began to rain. She lifted her eyes to the sky. _Such a beautiful night_ . . .

_I can't do this,_ she thought, dropping her head. _I'm just a fool. I'll never be ready . . . the Professor will have no use for me . . ._

She got up and started walking back to the lab. She needed to talk to Nero.

As she walked, it stopped raining, but the clouds continued to cover the moon. She found him a couple blocks away from the hidden lab, resting in the shadows.

"What are you doing here?!" he hissed. "Do you know what will happen if _he_ sees you here?"

"I'm lost, Nero," she said quietly. "I've found out where he works. It would be easy to ambush him. He leaves the shop at 8pm, and it would be dark, so–"

Unable to use his bound arms, he struck her with his head. This time she fell to the ground. "That's a good way to get us into trouble! I already told you my shadows don't work on him!" Nero hissed. "Get past his guard. Get him to stop being so suspicious and let go of that gun. And when he does, all you have to do is–"

"I don't know how! This world is just so alien. The shop owner says he's reclusive. What am I supposed to do? Just walk up to him on the street and say, 'please trust me so it'll be easier for me to kill you?'"

"Of course not!" Nero snapped. Then he sighed. "I don't know . . ."

"Nero . . ." she began. Then she closed her mouth, dropped her head, and stared at the ground.

Nero stared at the clouds above as the rain began to come down again. "Wait, I have an idea," he said. "We'll ambush him tomorrow night . . . but not in a way he'd expect," he said, laughing. "Why, you poor little waif," he said, turning to face her, "you need to be rescued."

* * *

A blood-curdling scream cut through the night air. Quick, light footsteps echoed down the near-vacant streets, followed closely by the ominous thundering of some unnatural creature. Vincent, who had just gotten off from work and was walking home, stopped cold at the noise. Midgar was usually so quiet in the evenings . . .

"Help!" she screamed, genuinely afraid. That beast had always hated her in the lab, and had mauled her twice already when it had escaped from its cage. She kept regenerating, and it kept tearing at her . . .

It was a beast bred to be perpetually angry. The head most closely resembled that of a javelina, and it had a sharp horn protruding from the space between its eyes. The short, stumpy, round body and legs appeared almost crocodilian – except for the fact that the beast was covered with a coat of thick, wiry hair. The end of its long tail was covered in sharp, bony spikes. In spite of its bulky stature, the beast was quite fast.

The shrieks of the beast mingled with the girl's screams. It was chasing her straight into a cul-de-sac. She tried to quicken her pace, but she was already running as fast as she could. Her thoughts flashed back to the conversation with Nero only a moment ago . . .

"Why did you have to pick the croiler, Nero? You know that thing hates me."

Nero only laughed. He was going to enjoy himself on this one. "The Professor was already looking for a way to get rid of it. It was the only creature I could acquire on such short notice without any questions asked. Besides, your screams will be all the more genuine."

"And what if Valentine doesn't take the bait?"

"He's a nice guy; he can't help it. Even if he doesn't come, maybe the croiler will go hunt down Valentine after it's had its way with you, my dear," Nero chuckled.

Mordea trembled as she ran from the beast. _How did I ever let him talk me into this?_

The dead-end came sooner than she had hoped. She led the creature along the right wall. Then she suddenly darted to the left and tried to run in a half-circle, hoping to flank the beast and get a chance to run back out of the cul-de-sac. Instead, she nearly met the monster's teeth. She screamed again. The beast was too quick. It snapped at her feet as she scrambled backwards along the right wall of the cul-de-sac. Her back hit another wall. She was all too aware of the un-giving brick walls around her, but nonetheless tried to press herself into the corner as far as possible, wishing to disappear. The croiler clawed the ground and snorted, then widened its jaws and lunged at her. _Oh crap,_ she thought, _not again_. Unable to scream, she covered her face, awaiting the mauling.

Instead, several gunshots rang out. The croiler's ear-splitting howl cut through the air. The beast turned and snarled at its attacker. It did not like to be interrupted. Without further hesitation, it turned and charged at Valentine.

He darted across the alleyway, firing at the creature as he ran. The shots only seemed to make the beast more angry. Valentine leapt onto a nearby dumpster – but he had underestimated the creature's agility. It followed him right up onto the dumpster, snarling as it jumped. The monster's weight broke the dumpster lid, dropping them both on a small – but still very smelly – pile of trash. Unnerved by how close the creature was, he punched it smartly on the snout with his brass-colored claw. He jumped out and fired several more rounds at the croiler while it stood there snorting and shaking its head.

The croiler shrieked in pain at the bullets and tore through the side of the dumpster, not even pausing before charging straight at Vincent.

Deadly Cerberus glistened in the moonlight. Fiery red eyes met the liquid black reptilian ones. A final shot rang out. The croiler's horn shattered into a thousand pieces as the last bullet tore through the space directly between its eyes. The monster stumbled. Vincent jumped out of the way less than a second before its hulk slid into the wall behind where he had been standing. The brick wall groaned and nearly collapsed with the impact.

Vincent still kept Cerberus aimed at the monster's body, waiting to make sure it was really over.

Soft whimpering from the corner of the cul-de-sac caught Vincent's attention. He lowered his weapon and looked over at her. She looked like a pile of dirty, wet clothes stuffed in the corner. Glancing once more at the un-breathing monster, he holstered Cerberus and walked over to her. She was shivering.

Vincent knelt beside the dilapidated little heap. "What is your name?"

"Rozu," she replied. Nero had given her an alternate name, along with some advice on how to play the "damsel in distress." Part of Mordea's unsettled appearance was her acting, but a greater part was caused by her guilt over what she was preparing to do.

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

"It's not good to be outdoors at this time of night. Where do you live?"

"I don't live."

Vincent waited, not understanding her answer.

"Um . . . I, uh, don't live anywhere," she finally said, catching her error.

Vincent looked her over. She certainly appeared homeless, with her wet, muddy clothes. Tangled hair half-covered her dirty face. As he looked at her, there was a strange sense of familiarity shifting about in the back of his mind. He helped her to her feet and began marching out of the alleyway. Part of him feared the beast would re-awaken. There was something about the monster's appearance that reminded him of the work of someone else, in his past . . .

Vincent paused and turned slightly. Mordea stood several paces behind him. "Come," he said, "the sooner we leave this place, the better."

She quickened her pace to follow him, but she still hung a few paces back. He was, after all, a target – someone the Professor wanted dead. Somehow she was afraid he'd hear her thoughts or suspect her true purpose.

He was not at all what she thought he'd be like. He was dressed differently than he had been in the picture, and his hair was much longer – yet he had not aged one bit. He had a slight frame, but was much taller than she'd expected. His mode of dress was decidedly more ominous than the tidy suit he donned for the photograph. In place of the suit, he wore a black shirt and pants covered by a tattered dark reddish-brown (almost black) trenchcoat, with black military boots. A dark red band of cloth kept his long, thick, unruly black hair away from his face. His hair was very wild, like Nero's; the difference was that Nero's hair was always stiff and brittle so that it never grew very long. Mordea wondered how many long years must have passed since the taking of that picture for Vincent Valentine's hair to grow so long. The eyes caught her attention the most – two tiny pools of blood set on fire . . . or perhaps more like two ruby-red embers; she couldn't decide which. Nero had red eyes, but they weren't like Vincent's. Nero's had those shadows behind them, like the red was just a translucent cap over deep nothingness. Vincent's eyes were far more vibrant. They burned with an angry fire.

Mordea's thoughts returned to Vincent's fight with the monster. On one hand, she had been wishing that the croiler would win and do the job she was so terrified – no, horrified – to do. At the same time she was very glad that Vincent won. That infernal monster was long overdue for a whipping. Of all the creatures created in the Professor's lab, the croiler was by far the most disagreeable.

The clouds, now covering the moon, rumbled with warnings of more showers. Seconds after the warning, rain began to fall. Vincent stopped and glanced at the sky, then held out his hand to Mordea. Timidly stepping forward, she took the hand. He then took off his trenchcoat and put it around her. Surprised at first, she pulled away slightly. Vincent didn't move; didn't try to reel her in. He just stood motionless, waiting. Remembering her role, Mordea stepped closer. She was so short that the trenchcoat dragged on the ground. It was warm, dry, and smelled strongly of very old leather, gunpowder, and grease. Every few steps she'd catch a whiff of that dumpster smell . . .

He walked a half-step ahead of her. Mordea had never walked so close to any human or humanoid, save Nero. Many years ago, she and Nero had sat just outside the lab one night, talking. She'd leaned her head on his shoulder as she asked him questions about the world. With Nero, there was always a sort of cold, musty stillness around him. It was a sort of deadness, which she imagined others must sense when they got close to her, but Nero's deadness seemed very strong, almost smothering.

Vincent was very different – warm, and more . . . dynamic. He made steady, soft hissing sounds as he pulled air in and out of his lungs . . . Ah, the living. The living move air in and out of their bodies. It's what keeps them alive.

And soon he would be dead, no longer wringing the air. This remembrance of her true purpose made her feel ill.

"Where are we going?" she asked, voice quavering.

"For tonight, you may take shelter at my apartment," he said. "After that . . . we'll try to find some way to get you back on your feet. My friends may be able to help you."

Vincent surprised himself. Since when did he take homeless people off of the streets and offer to help them start a new life?

But what other choice was there? It just didn't seem right to say "I hope all goes well for you; stay safe" and leave the poor girl standing there alone, on a cold rainy night.

And what would he do with her if she were there for more than one night? The tiny apartment had one bedroom. He could sleep on the couch for now, but if the girl could not find a way to sustain herself relatively soon, things would be very cramped. It would be improper for her to stay long at his apartment anyway.

He could ask Cloud and Tifa to help. But did they have the space, time, or resources to help this girl anymore than he did? It had been a long time since he'd seen them. They were such kind people that they would not hesitate to do all they could – but would they any better off (financially) than him now?

Regardless, he had to help her somehow. He'd been homeless once, and it had not ended well. Being desperate for a meal will make you do horrible things for horrible people.

A tiny set of fingers shook him from his thoughts. Mordea had quietly grasped the hand that was leading her. It reminded him so much of–

They had reached the apartment.

Vincent handed her some clothes and told her to take a shower. The clothes would be too large – she was a good eight inches shorter than him – but they were still better than those filthy wet ones.

Meanwhile, Vincent began to boil some water, then dumped in a couple packages of ramen noodles along with their respective spice packets. While it was cooking, he wracked his brain for something else to fix. Even before his 30-year isolation, he had only cooked for himself. Ramen noodles constituted a meal for him, but what did other people eat these days?

He looked in the refrigerator. There wasn't much, so he tried the freezer. There was only one frozen hot dog left. However, there were plenty of fish sticks. Unable to think of anything else, Vincent set some on a tray and stuck them in the oven.

Mordea enjoyed the shower. The streets had a good deal more dirt in them than the lab did; she and Nero had always worked hard to keep their area of the lab tidy. She couldn't remember feeling so dirty before. After stepping out of the shower, she wiped the steam off of the mirror and looked at her own face, staring quietly. There weren't many mirrors in the lab.

Perhaps the scarcity of mirrors was for the best. The deadness in her own eyes almost frightened her. It was like looking at something . . . something that had somehow wronged the laws of the universe . . .

Why should she be so afraid of herself? She had always looked this way. She was created this way. She ran her fingers along the reflection. Those fingers were supposed to be covered in blood soon. She tore herself away from the mirror and turned her back on it, praying that the steam might cover it again so she wouldn't have to risk seeing herself anymore.

Mirrors make you look at yourself.

_I don't want to see me._

Keeping her back to the mirror, Mordea dressed as quickly as she could. The clothes were much too big for her. Thankfully, the fabric was stiff enough for her to roll up the sleeves and pant-legs. The pants had a drawstring, which she pulled as tight as she could in order to keep them from falling down.

Not knowing what to do with her dirty clothes, she pushed them in a corner next to the shower. She was about to walk out of the bathroom when she remembered the book the girl had given her. Mordea dug through the pile of clothes to retrieve it. It was wet, but the ink hadn't run; it was still quite readable. She stuffed it in one of the side pockets in the large pants and walked out into the hallway.

Feeling shy, she walked into the small kitchen where Vincent stood. She hadn't the slightest clue what to do next. Remembering her true mission, she looked at the butcher knives setting in a wooden holder on the counter. _No. I can't. Not yet. I'm not ready._

Vincent hurriedly put some ramen noodles on a plate, next to the fish sticks. Then he turned and set them on the small table. He glanced up at Mordea. Then he stopped and stared. Vincent studied her for a moment. In the alleyway, her face had been obscured by her hair and the shadows of night. He hadn't noticed until now how much she looked like Lucretia – the same delicate features and small stature, the same tiny nose and china-doll lips . . . the same long, thick brown hair, just like it had been thirty years ago. Her eyes looked very much like Lucretia's, but were somehow different . . . they were very cold and broken. The color was different; they looked like two bright discs of icy-cold silver. And her face looked more like carved alabaster than living flesh.

It couldn't be. Lucretia had been permanently sealed in mako crystals at the cave, before it collapsed – either sealing her away from all eyes or killing her; probably the latter. But the resemblance was unnerving.

Mordea didn't really notice him staring; her focus was on the food. Because of her undead state, she could not eat. Her digestive system had ceased to function. She depended on the nutrient chamber for her sustenance. However, she didn't want to blow her cover, and normal people were supposed to eat – especially homeless people who didn't often get to have hot meals. She began to sit down at the table.

Vincent shook himself from the barrage of thoughts. "I know it's not much, but it's . . . food." He could've kicked himself for that last line. Of course it was food.

He never had guests, so the table only had one chair. Vincent dragged another chair from his work bench over to the table so he could sit down. He began eating, and tried not to stare at her.

The meal was a very quiet one.

* * *

He offered to let her sleep in his bed while he slept on the couch. She complied, but since she had no need for sleep, she was soon staring out the bedroom window at the moonlight.

Mordea wanted to leave – just go somewhere far away from the lab and never come back. But that couldn't ever happen with the Professor's tracking device embedded somewhere within her.

And what of the mission? Her "target" ought to be at least relaxing by now. That was what she'd been told to wait for. She was anxious to get this over with.

Mordea crept quietly into the kitchen where she'd seen the knives. As she reached for the handle of the largest one, she began to shake uncontrollably. She wanted to run. Hesitating, her hand hovered over the knife handle, unable to grab it. Flashbacks of the punishments the Professor had dealt her fired through her mind, reminding her why she was doing this. It was her only choice. She grasped the knife handle and crept toward the doorway to the living room.

She peeked carefully through the doorway. Vincent was sitting on the couch, reading a book by the dim candlelight. His back was toward her.

Hands sweating, she began to creep towards him. She made no sound. The floor was simply padding and carpet covering cement, so there was no chance of squeaky floorboards. Mordea didn't even need to breathe. She was the perfect weapon.

Mordea stood about three feet away from Vincent, knife held ready. Vincent was thoroughly absorbed in his "book," which – unbeknownst to Mordea – was actually one of the lab notebooks he'd managed to recover on the Jenova project. He didn't even have the gun sitting next to him on the couch. It was all the way across the room, hanging in its holster on a hook next to his coat. He'd never reach it in time if she stabbed him now.

Quivering and nauseous with guilt and fear, Mordea could not make herself go any further. She just stood there. She could see his carotid artery from this distance. She knew exactly what to do with the knife. She'd been trained to use the knife in the most efficient way – a quick and painless execution-style cut. It would take only a fraction of a second . . . _Just hurry up and do as you're told, Mordea . . ._

But she couldn't. It just wasn't a very nice thing to do, sneaking up behind someone and cutting their throat – especially since he was trying to help her. When it came right down to it – help or no help – it was murder.

_But I have orders to . . . assassinate this subject . . ._

"Assassinate" is just a fancy word for murder.

_But the Professor has ordered his execution . . ._

It wasn't that either. Execution is what happens to murderers who have been convicted after a fair and public trial.

_But the Professor . . . I was ordered to . . ._

She had no reason to kill him. The Professor's orders or the threat of punishment were still not reason enough to kill an innocent human being. Vincent wasn't trying to harm or kill her. He was sitting on the couch reading a book. She couldn't do it.

_Sooner or later he's going to shift about and notice me standing here,_ she thought. Unable to finish the job and afraid of being discovered, she retreated silently back to the kitchen and put the knife away. Then she scampered back to the bedroom. She could hear the Professor's voice inside her head – the words he had spoken the last time he'd punished her. The room seemed to close in around her. She wanted to scream. Searching for escape, she opened the bedroom window and jumped out.

She didn't get very far down the alleyway before falling forward on her hands and knees, still shaking. She vomited her undigested dinner, then continued to retch and quiver. The fit seemed to go on forever. When it finally stopped, she curled up in the middle of the alley, still shaking. She had come so close . . . _coward_.

Yet, Mordea hated that she had come as close as she did to such an awful thing. She hated the idea of taking an innocent life.

And she had failed! The failure seemed to only make it worse. It was almost like committing the act over and over, as she rehearsed the act in her mind and then had tried – but failed – to do it.

Searching for distraction, Mordea noticed the book she had put in her pocket. She took it out and tried to read it. Her hands were still shaking, so she set it down on the ground and leaned over it. She began flipping mindlessly through the pages.

She stopped as one phrase caught her eye – the last thing she wanted to read about at that moment. "Do not murder." It did not say, "do not kill." It specifically said "do not murder." A potent distinction. Murder, as in a premeditated and unnecessary act. Not self-defense, not defense of one's country or friends and family. Not a public punishment for hideous crimes. It was an act of vengeance or . . . assassination . . . something malevolent, done in secret, often for personal gain . . .

Her thoughts were interrupted by footsteps. Someone was running down the alleyway, in her direction. "Rozu!" a voice called out. It was Vincent's.

Mordea just now realized that she had stopped shaking at some point. She grabbed the book and tried to stand up, but stumbled. Vincent caught her.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked. "What happened?" He was breathing heavily from running, and the night air was so cold that a mist appeared near his mouth each time he exhaled. Not only did he breathe, but his body was able to warm the air during the short amount of time it was in his lungs. The living never ceased to amaze Mordea.

She avoided his gaze and pulled away from him, heading back towards his apartment. Then she paused. "I'm sorry," she said. Then she kept walking. Vincent walked with her the rest of the way back.

Feeling guilty, she insisted that he take the bedroom while she slept on the couch. He shook his head. "You need it more than I do," he said, and sent her back to the room with a glass of water and a clean shirt to change into. He later looked in on her a couple of times in the night, but she never moved. Mordea spent the night curled up on top of the covers, staring at the wall.

Eventually she heard some rustling noises in the living room, and Vincent checked on her once more – whilst grabbing a fresh set of clothing. Then he left for work.

* * *

Dawn came, and Mordea continued to lay in the bed and stare at the wall. Her sense of dread grew with each passing moment. Yet, there was nothing she could do. All she could do was wait.

Hot sunlight poured through the window. When Mordea looked at it, it seemed to sear her eyes so that everything else in the room was difficult to see. It made her feel dizzy and nauseous.

Angry fingernails scratched at the back of her neck. Were they real, or was she just crazy? It didn't matter. The message was real.

A voice spoke out of the dizzying sunlight. "How can you expect me to use such an imperfect tool? Can you give me a reason why I should not cast you aside?"

Mordea did not want to acknowledge the voice.

The voice desired more of a response from her. It dug its fingernails into her back. She flopped over on her back and pressed herself into the mattress, trying to keep the fingers from digging into her. Instead, the claws dug deeper.

"Why?!" she cried out. "Why should you care?!"

"He tried to interfere with my will," the voice answered. "He should be dead for it! And you were the one who helped him escape what he had coming to him. Now you will fix that mistake. You will send him to the grave he deserved."

"But I've never helped or saved anyone," Mordea spoke softly. "I was created for death alone."

"How little you know of yourself!" the voice cackled. "It is for your insolence that you became undead."

Mordea was silent. She couldn't remember anything before she had been made by the Professor. She had always believed that she was "born" this way – that her heart had never beat before and never would in the future.

The voice interrupted her thoughts. "You _shall_ complete my will!" Then the voice exhaled and grew quieter, retreating into that dizzyingly hot beam of sunlight. The claws slowly let go and followed the remnants of the voice.

All sign of the voice was gone, but Mordea did not feel alone. The voice would be watching her. It had been for some time now, but she hadn't told the Professor about it. Besides, if the voice carried the same will as the Professor, it did not matter. He was probably the one who put the voice there anyway.

She heard the apartment door open. Vincent had come home. Mordea looked back at the window and saw that the sun was disappearing behind the tall buildings of Midgar. How much time had passed? How long had the voice held her in its grip? It frightened her. The voice had never before exercised such power over her. And really, it hadn't had a reason to before. Until now, she had been locked in the lab. There was little she could do in that steel-and-cement cage. But now, out in the city, she could be used to do many things . . . It seemed that as her freedom grew, so did the power of the voice.

A pair of deep red eyes peeked through the bedroom door to check on her. She didn't move. A few moments later, she heard the tv switch on in the living room. It was the evening news. The reporter was saying something about discovering the remains of what appeared to be an old Shin-Ra research facility hidden beneath the remains of the old burned-down mansion in Nibelheim . . .

Mordea sat up and rubbed her head, then covered her face with both hands. _Why me?_

She closed the curtains and went out to the living room. She arrived just in time to hear the reporter say something about "inconclusive evidence." Then the sportscaster took over. Vincent shut the tv off and went into the kitchen.

The water began to boil on the stove. Vincent was making ramen noodles again. He had actually stopped by the store on his way home from work, but when he got to the food aisle, he realized he didn't really know how to make anything else. He was a gunslinger, not a chef. Rather than embarrass himself by trying to learn something new in the presence of a guest, he ended up just buying a couple of new flavors of ramen noodles. Unfortunately, they only had one flavor of fish sticks . . . not much variety there. He bought more hot dogs though. Perhaps he could alternate between fish sticks and hot dogs. He wasn't a very good host. Come to think of it, he had never been a host before – at least, not in the sense of entertaining guests at his home. Perhaps she wouldn't care . . . Vincent thought back to when he had been in that situation. All he'd cared about was food and a warm place to stay. It didn't really matter if there was a lot of variety and flavor. In fact, he had failed to care about the evil intentions of the people who took him in and cared for him . . .

In any case, he didn't plan on keeping the girl at his home for very long. He was determined to help her "get back on her feet." It just didn't seem proper to let her – a single woman – stay in his apartment otherwise.

Dinner began quietly, as it had the night before. But this time, the ramen noodles were beef-flavored, and they were on the plate with a side of hot dogs instead of fish sticks.

Mordea had lost interest in food. Tasting it for the first time had been an adventure, but she didn't enjoy it now, knowing that she wouldn't be allowed to keep it.

Vincent tried not to let his gaze wander over to her face. He couldn't take looking at her; she just looked so much like Lucretia. He broke the silence at the table, but refused to look up from his ramen. He would need to focus on the conversation. "So . . . what are you good at?"

Mordea stopped eating and stared at him. "I . . . I don't know . . . what do you mean?"

"Is there something you do a lot – something that you enjoy and are skilled at?"

She paused for several seconds to think. "Um . . . I guess . . . well, I like swords. And knives." The moment those words were out of her mouth, she regretted saying them. Nero had told her a few things about how "helpless damsels in distress" should be, and being adept with bladed weapons was not one of those things.

"Do you know how to make swords – or knives?"

"No, I just . . . I was only taught how to use them." If it had been physically possible, she would have been blushing deep red. She had just punched several holes in her own cover.

"Do you think you could teach Kendo or something?" Vincent asked, trying to come up with job possibilities.

"What's Kendo?" she asked, dumbfounded. In the lab, the Professor had captured (and was able to control) an instructor by means of anesthetic gas. The Professor took the man's family hostage in order to force him to train Mordea. The angry instructor only taught her the bare bones of what she would need for fighting – and he did so hastily. All the rest of what she learned came from fighting the instructor. She learned nothing of the history or even the name of the art. She was given all the physical aspects, but never learned anything about the true heart of the art. Just sparring matches, for months on end, until the time within the shadows of the underground lab stretched into years . . .

Vincent raised an eyebrow at her response. He looked up to study her, and saw Lucretia's eyes staring back at him, questioning. He quickly looked back at his ramen and took another bite. "It's sword fighting." If the girl really was any good with swords, she should have known what it was – or so he believed.

"Oh." She dropped her eyes. "I don't know . . . I guess I could try."

Vincent silently resolved to look up some Kendo schools in the morning. The rest of the dinner was silent.

Amidst the silence, Mordea studied him as he ate. On a basic human level, he seemed to enjoy the food. It was a small luxury he allowed himself. He had to, in order to have enough energy to continue moving about. It wasn't just about the taste either – it was fulfilling a need. Filling up the yawning hole in your belly. Delivering nutrients that would be digested and pumped through the blood. It delivered the nutrients in a way that was pleasurable.

Her nutrient chamber, on the other hand, always made her feel like her skin was on fire. Thousands upon thousands of needles pierced at the same time at different depths, all trying to compensate for 100,000 miles of blood vessels that would normally do the job in a living person. The needles burned and stung, and then the pressure within her body increased until she felt like she was ready to rupture. The needles pumped in all she needed to survive for two weeks. The first time she'd been in the chamber, she passed out from the pain. As years went by, she began to tolerate it – but it was the sort of thing that one could never really get used to.

Mordea took another bite. It tasted good. She had never eaten anything in her life until Vincent cooked those ramen noodles. The taste was overridden by the act of swallowing. She greatly disliked the idea of putting foreign substances into her stomach, especially since she knew she would have to expel them later. The Professor had once warned her that if she left anything sitting inside her inactive stomach for very long, it would begin to decay and might cause sepsis.

She watched as Vincent cleaned his plate. _Does he even realize how good he has it?_

* * *

Later that evening, Vincent picked up one of those books again. The book he was viewing at that moment was one of Lucretia's old lab notebooks from the Jenova project. He ran his fingers slowly over the page. The page had a wrinkled, discolored spot where some unknown chemical had been spilled on it. Her handwriting had faded in the stained spot. There was still enough of the chemical left that it made his fingers burn slightly to touch it . . . it was probably some strong acid or base in dried form, activated by the tiny bits of moisture on his skin. The notes were hastily written. Yet among the abbreviations and shorthand, the letters themselves were still graceful. Gentle beauty even under pressure.

He didn't understand all the words. The sciences had never made much sense to him. His own father was a brilliant paleontologist, but the researcher never spent much time with Vincent. Grimoire was always busy with some new project.

Vincent's mother left Grimoire because of it, and was killed in a plane crash soon after the divorce. The house was always empty, so Vincent found other things to do with himself. At first he tried archery, but he found bullets to be more practical – and less expensive – than arrows. He burned away many hours at target practice, never returning to the city until it was too dark to practice. He hated going home at night. He practiced his aim until it was perfect, and then practiced some more, always setting up new and interesting challenges to make the hours pass more quickly.

There was one very important thing he never really learned: how to use a gun. Vincent had taught himself everything there was to know about the physical and technical aspects of the weaponry, but that was all he ever picked up. He was left alone to figure out the ethical and moral implications.

One day he and his father had a terrible fight. Vincent left, never looking back. He had taken care of himself all those years anyway; he didn't need his father. However, he was only fourteen. It seemed impossible to get a job when he was homeless, penniless, and didn't have any experience. After a couple of weeks on the streets, he had acquired such an unclean appearance that no one would even accept a job application from him.

As a last-ditch effort, he tried to put on a curbside sharpshooting show, hoping that people would drop change in the can he had set down on the sidewalk (like he had seen people doing for curbside musicians). Instead, he was arrested for firing a gun in a business district.

It was only by chance that a Shin-Ra representative had seen the display and bailed him out of jail. The company didn't hesitate to pluck the prodigy off the streets and begin using him. Skill like Vincent's was nothing to sneeze at. The president of the company actually liked the fact that Vincent was so young; he was all too eager to mold the boy into the perfect assassin.

President Shin-Ra considered Vincent a "successful project." Vincent became Shin-Ra's most useful fighter. Years dragged on, and the company grew larger and stronger. More and more responsibility was given to him: more "jobs" that required a perfect shot from a great distance. Shin-Ra's competitors disappeared one by one. Vincent climbed the ranks and soon became a Turk – the highest level of firepower under President Shin-Ra. Turks were widely feared. Shin-Ra grew from monopoly to empire, and the Turks were the ones who made all threats to Shin-Ra "disappear." Vincent never really thought about what he was doing . . . until green eyes confronted him.

On that night so long ago, he had been positioned in the upper level of the train station. The building had a small section with a second story, while the main part of the station was single-story and had a large skylight. From the office he was sitting in, he could see through the skylight into the brightly-lit area where the trains dropped off and picked up passengers.

Vincent carefully adjusted the rifle until the gunsight was pointed squarely at the door where the passengers were getting off. During the briefing, he'd been given several photos of the target. Now all he had to do was wait for the right one to step off the train. Then there it was – the right face appeared. Vincent started to squeeze the trigger.

"Daddy!" she yelled as she jumped into his arms. The target leaned forward to embrace her, and his head disappeared behind the tall people standing around the exit door. When the target finally stood up, he was moving around too much. The crowd swarmed around him. Vincent couldn't get a good shot, and the target was heading out of the train station.

Vincent spoke into the communicator in his sleeve. "No shot on the target. He is moving toward the exit. Shall I move to execute him once he enters the street?"

"Negative," a voice replied. "The police chief just pulled up outside with two officers, and they're heading for the station entrance. Target must be eliminated inside the station, ASAP."

Vincent cursed quietly. "I'll go in."

"Alright; I'm sending in Marshall as backup. ETA 30 seconds."

Vincent usually shot from a distance; his specialty was sniping. He was weak in empty-hand combat, so his superiors didn't really like to send him very close to targets. They usually sent in Marshall – the musclehead – to do that sort of work. Marshall's shooting abilities were below average, but he had the physical ability to make up for any mistakes with the gun. However, in the few instances where Vincent was sent in close, he never had to use empty-hand combat. Vincent's abilities rivaled those of any martial arts master – he just used a gun instead of a sword or other weapon. Just as Musashi finished duels with one cut, Vincent only needed one bullet.

Vincent ran out the office door and down the stairs, heading for the crowded departure area. The target was in possession of knowledge that would expose President Shin-Ra's dirty deeds, and he needed to be eliminated before he could speak to the police. Normally, Turks didn't cut it quite so close to deadlines, but this target had been particularly difficult to track down. And now that they had finally located him, it was now or never.

Reaching the crowded departure room, Vincent looked around. His stature allowed him to see over the heads of many of the people there. Finally, he spotted the target. The guy had almost reached the exit door.

Vincent ran towards the target, pushing through the crowd as he reached inside his jacket for a handgun. Vincent's running caught the target's attention, and the man – as well as his daughter – looked up at Vincent. When the girl saw the gun, she screamed, but Vincent didn't hear. All of his focus was on the target. He pulled the trigger once, and it was over. The girl clutched at the target as he fell to the ground. Vincent swiftly put the gun away. The gun had a silencer on it, and no one around them had really figured out what had just happened. He started to pull back and disappear into the panicked crowd like he had so many times before. In. Execute. Out. Done. Go home to ramen noodles, a bottle of wine, and an old movie. But the girl wouldn't let him. She dared to make a scene. She dared to challenge him.

"Murderer!!!" the girl sobbed, clutching his dark blue suit and shaking him. "Why?!" she shouted. "Why do you hate my daddy?!" She pounded on his chest and struck aimlessly at him, slapping and punching in a fit of rage and pain. His nose began to bleed, and he stumbled backwards a little from the blows. But he did not raise a hand to stop her. He just couldn't. He was completely stunned. He'd never eliminated a target in front of one of the target's family members.

The target's blood was splattered on the girl, and it had been smeared all over her hands and clothes when she hugged the body. Now that blood was all over Vincent. He just looked at the blood, speechless. He'd seen a great deal of gore, but it wasn't supposed to soil his suit. How was he supposed to walk casually away with so much red smeared all over his front? He wasn't supposed to get dirty. The "jobs" had always been clean and distant. Turks were experts – the classiest, most efficient killers around. Turks didn't stick around long enough for the blood to pool around their shoes. He didn't like to make a habit of executing targets up close, but even when he'd had to, he'd used quick, clean, silent shots and then hidden away in the crowd, leaving the target out of sight and out of mind. The little bits of blood spatter were too small to draw attention. Furthermore, no one had ever followed him. He'd never seen the family. He'd never seen the effects of shooting someone up close _in cold blood_ – he'd never seen the tears and pain. He hadn't gotten dirty like this.

Exhausted, the girl collapsed at his feet, wailing. Vincent just stared. He was paralyzed. He didn't care that a few people in the scattering crowd were stopping to stare. The girl was about the same age he'd been when Shin-Ra had plucked him from the streets.

Still dazed, Vincent hadn't seen Marshall arrive. Marshall spoke into the communicator in his sleeve: "target eliminated."

"My daddy is not a target!" the girl screamed. "My daddy is a human being! He's a person! Daddy's not just a target! He's a human being!!!" She shrieked louder and louder, and began slapping and punching Marshall. Like Vincent, Marshall was a man of few words; the difference was that Marshall wasn't shy – he simply found the act of speaking to others to be beneath him. He was impatient, and far less tolerant than Vincent had been. Marshall grabbed the front of the girl's shirt and held her at a distance. He told her to shut up and pulled out his gun. The girl grabbed the gun and fought with him. The end of the gun flashed briefly as a silent shot went off, and the screaming stopped. She fell to the ground, and her head rolled over so that she was looking at Vincent. The lower part of her face was destroyed, but her eyes stared out clear as ever. Then her eyes went blank. Those eyes weren't looking at him anymore; they were looking through him. She didn't move after that.

Marshall turned his gun toward the few people who had stopped running and dared to watch the scene. They cowered in fear. "This device has just captured all of your faces," he said, pointing to his tiny headset. "If any of you breathes a single word about this to anyone, we will hunt you down and execute you and your families, just as we did with these people!"

After that, Marshall grabbed Vincent's arm and dragged him roughly toward a side door of the station. "You idiot!" he growled at Vincent. "Do you realize what kind of cleanup this will require?"

Vincent didn't answer. He just watched his own feet moving beneath him, without really seeing anything. Her eyes – even in death, they were a lively shade of green. They were so sad to look at. And her daddy was a human being.

"The sweepers will have to take care of the rest," Marshall said, trying to pull Vincent along faster. "Let's go."

That night, Vincent didn't sleep a wink. Every time he closed his eyes, those pretty green ones stared back at him. And each time they stared at him, they looked so shocked. And sad. And angry. And hurt.

Her daddy was a human being. She told Vincent over and over, mercilessly. Her daddy was a human being . . . and so was she.

Once certain witnesses were either threatened or paid off and the security videos from the incident destroyed, the Turks were granted a brief reprieve. President Shin-Ra's opponents and competitors had decreased rapidly as a result of the Turks' work, and the brutal public murder had frightened away anyone else who was thinking of standing up to Shin-Ra. There was no one who "needed to be silenced" at the moment.

Meanwhile, Vincent spiraled into a depression. It wasn't that Vincent had been a very cheerful person to begin with; he had just been able to remain quietly unaware and uncaring until that point. He felt as if he had been walking – and shooting – in his sleep, until those pleading green eyes challenged him. They said what no one else would ever dare say to the face of a Turk. _They're not just targets. They're human beings._

It's interesting how words are used to cover up human beings. In order to complete certain selfish acts, people must first deny the humanity of their victims. They turn human beings into words.

Jap Monkey Squaw Half-Breed Nigger Fetus Tissue Injun Slant Whore Ape Slave Spic Bitch Chink Jew Dog Raghead Cunt Pig Gook Filthy Subject Thing Target.

Target.

_They're human beings._

What had he been thinking all those years? If they weren't human beings, then what were they? He wasn't sure he could answer his own questions. He had just always felt numb. They were . . . targets. Words. Things that the world was overpopulated with. Things that the world didn't need. Things that didn't really matter. Things that threatened Shin-Ra and were the best place to start when bringing the world's population back to equilibrium. Animated things that danced before his eyes like a movie. They were lights and sounds he was ordered to fill with lead. They hadn't ever seemed real. Even when he looked at ordinary people walking down the street, they hadn't seemed real. Just illusions. Whenever the hint that they might be more than "things" crossed his mind, he trampled that thought, out of necessity. Perhaps that was why he didn't have any friends. Even his fellow Turks weren't quite real. They were skilled machines – weapons he worked with. He had never been forced to consider that they were indeed real, that they were alive, that they were like him. For so many years, he had refused to look. Now, two green eyes wouldn't let him look away, not even for a second.

Each hour of each day dragged by slowly, and his head was still spinning with the things he'd come to realize. If they were human beings, then what was he? _Murderer!!!_ the green eyes shouted in reply.

A week went by, and still he could not sleep. A Shin-Ra company physician gave him sleeping pills. The medication made him dizzy and a bit nauseous, but the green eyes still wouldn't let him sleep.

_Murder._ Murder, as in a premeditated and unnecessary act. Not self-defense, not defense of one's country or friends and family. Not a public punishment for hideous crimes. It was an act of vengeance or . . . assassination . . . something malevolent, done in secret, often for personal gain . . .

President Shin-Ra soon assigned Vincent to a new project. This time, it was one of protection, not elimination. He was ordered to be the bodyguard of one of the scientists working on the top-secret Jenova project. _Just what I need,_ he thought, _something to get me past all of this._ In the past he had found bodyguard jobs to be tedious, but this time, he was looking forward to it. It would feel good to be protecting people instead of "eliminating" them.

Vincent slowly lifted himself from this reverie. He closed the lab notebook and stared at its cover. He had been so naive back then . . . he had finally awakened, but he wasn't prepared for what he would face in the Jenova project. Maybe he never could have been prepared for it. That fateful job had been his last. It had changed him forever.

He put the old notebook back on the shelf and gazed out the window at the stars. _What were you thinking, Lucretia? What drove you to commit such madness?_

* * *

The next day, while Vincent was at work, Mordea sat alone at the apartment. That stagnant feeling was getting to her again. She paced back and forth, shaking her legs and jumping occasionally. Finally she tried standing on her head – that seemed to help some.

However, none of it could get rid of the voice. The voice was always watching her, following her, breathing down her neck. Occasionally the ominous pressure would get to her and she would whirl around to look behind her, expecting to finally see the voice's physical form, watching her. But nothing was there.

Anxious and bored, she finally pulled the little book out of her pocket – the one that girl on the sidewalk had given her. She turned to the first page. "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth." The book went on to list out all the things in the world that were created by God. When God was done making things, He looked around and decided it was good, and He rested. It was a pleasant thought. There were nice things once: beautiful, pure things not created by the Professor. It was a world where death and destruction were forbidden. The land of Eden.

Then, the book said, an evil being offered humanity a choice. If they went against the rules God had set out for them, the evil being would give them powerful knowledge – "secret" things that God didn't want them to know. Naive and curious, humanity accepted, and the world was cursed. The "secret" was the knowledge and understanding of true evil. The covenant between God and humanity was shattered. Eden was closed to humanity forever. Sickness and hardship overtook the world. Of the first two children born outside of Eden, one murdered the other. _That must be the line the Professor came from,_ she thought with a smirk.

The book went on to state that _all_ humans were fallen. _All_ were imperfect and doomed to break God's laws. The punishment for breaking those laws was eternal death – the sort of death where one constantly continues to die and suffer, but never ceases to exist. Souls could not be destroyed.

_All_ were imperfect. _All_ who broke God's laws were sentenced to the same fate. _All_ were equal in God's sight.

Mordea didn't like that idea. She wasn't perfect; from what she'd read so far, she had broken several of the rules. But the insinuation that such imperfections put her on the same level as the Professor angered her. She didn't deserve to go to Heaven, but she didn't think she deserved to go to the same Hell as the Professor either. Mordea shut the book with an audible "slap" and shoved it in her pocket.

What did any of this matter anyway? She considered her other mistakes to be small and inexcusable, but once her mission was complete, she would be cursed forever. She would murder her hospitable host – fulfill her life's purpose. The Professor would be proud. Then, with her purpose ended, she would be destroyed.

But what if it was really true – that part about the eternal death? As one who already experienced a functioning death – one who was trapped inside a dead body – it sounded like the worst torture in existence. She wished to _cease_ to exist, to become nothing. She did not want to be stuck grasping at that nothingness for all eternity.

Whether it was true or not, it didn't seem to matter. If everyone was doomed to the same inescapable fate, there was no point in dwelling on it. Don't fear what you can't change.

Even though reading the book had been very depressing, there was an upside. The voice didn't like the book. It seemed to have retreated for the moment.

* * *

"Poison," he said. "The Professor modified his body, so there's not really any poison that could kill him, but there are poisons that will knock him unconscious. After he drops, I'll finish it."

Desperate to get things over with, Mordea had been forced to go to Nero for help once more.

"I'll grab some from the lab and bring it to the apartment before he gets home from work," Nero offered. "I can wait outside in the alleyway until the substance has taken effect."

Nero brought the poison as promised. Mordea was going to make the ramen tonight.

* * *

Vincent came back to the apartment a bit late. He'd been out looking for Kendo schools (and all sword-related businesses) with job openings.

"Rozu, there's a few places looking for . . . assistants, of sorts . . . they deal with swords. The day after tomorrow is my day off, so we can start checking these places out, and . . ." Vincent eyed the now-washed Hello Kitty casual dress wearing. The mud stains from that rainy night couldn't be washed out. "You'll need a nice suit, or a gi, or something. We can go by the shops in the morning and do the job search in the afternoon."

Mordea turned away from the stove – she was boiling the ramen noodles at that moment – to look at him. "A gi?"

Vincent frowned. "A gi is a uniform people wear in the schools where sword arts are taught." It seemed that he knew more about martial arts terminology than she did. He was getting a sinking feeling about this job search.

"Oh" was all she said, before turning back to the stove. She poked at the hard square of ramen noodles in the pot of water. She wondered how long it would take the noodles to get soft.

Her mind was in a daze. She was only going to poison this nice man – not kill him, but render him defenseless. Then someone else would come and kill him. That was supposed to make it easier, right?

Vincent left to go get cleaned up. He had come home with gun oil stains all over his clothes – as he had been ever since Rozu had been staying at his apartment. Truth was, Vincent couldn't focus. He couldn't keep his mind off of Rozu, or Lucretia. Seeing that face drudged up old memories. The gun shop owner had become worried about Vincent; he had never seen Vincent have so much trouble with the gun oil bottle before.

Walking into the bathroom to wash his hands, Vincent caught sight of himself in the mirror and did a double-take. His hair looked quite a bit wilder than usual. It had probably come from when he had run his dirty, oily hand through his hair in exasperation so many times today. Rozu didn't seem to have noticed. Considering the state he had found her in, perhaps she didn't care about such things. He hoped she hadn't noticed – but how could anyone not notice? His hair looked terrible!

He stopped and stared at the sink. Why should he care so much about what she thought of his hair? He hadn't cared about what his hair looked like in over thirty years. She was just some homeless girl he was trying to help. It was more penance for his past.

Or was it? She just looked so much like Lucretia. How he had longed to see her face again.

The last time he'd stopped by the cave to see Lucretia, he found that someone else was already at the cave, tampering with the crystals surrounding Lucretia. It was a strange-looking figure with steel wings and creeping shadows all around him. His arms were bound up in his suit and his face was covered with bands of cloth. He seemed to be eating away at the mako crystals – not with any part of his body, but with his shadows.

Vincent confronted him, of course. The man said nothing, but turned to fight against him. In the end, the fight caused a cave-in, and the stranger escaped while Vincent tried to dig Lucretia out. After about a week, Vincent finally gave up. The cave-in was so complete that no person by themselves could successfully dig her out. Lucretia was probably dead from the cave-in anyway.

And now a walking, talking memorial of Lucretia was in his own apartment.

He mustn't think of Rozu like that! She was so different. All of the liveliness and hopeful ambition that once defined Lucretia was absent in Rozu. Rozu acted like she was . . . in some sort of shock. Most importantly, Lucretia was gone. Forever. She was dead, or at best sealed away. In either case, she could never come back. His mistakes had sentenced her to death. Vincent should accept that and move on.

But he couldn't move on; there was nothing for him to move on to. He was an old man, crawling through life in an immortal body. Grey hairs refused to bless him, and even his coffin had spat him out once more among the living. He had so much difficulty with the modern technology everyone used these days – he couldn't even figure out how to use his cell phone properly. He always kept a small address book in his pocket and dialed the numbers manually. He didn't fit into this life. He got rid of his old, strange armored shoes when they wore out and bought simple black combat boots instead, but people didn't stop staring at him. He even traded his unusual cloak for an expensive trenchcoat. But he still couldn't fit in with this generation. He couldn't make new friends here. He didn't belong.

Besides, he didn't really want to move on. He wanted so badly to fix what he'd done wrong. He wanted to go back and change it all. He wanted to escape from his sins. Alas, escape was not possible . . . forgiveness then? No, he wasn't ready to be forgiven. How could he expect others to forgive him when he could not forgive himself? He didn't deserve it. This life of darkness was what he deserved. He couldn't even feel sympathy for himself. Not once had he shed a single tear for his own horrible, painful fate. He knew he deserved every bit of it.

Frustrated, Vincent changed into some clean clothes, and then tried to fix his wildly greased hair.

* * *

Meanwhile, Mordea continued to cook the noodles. They had finally softened, so she turned off the stove and dumped the spice packets in. Then she pulled the small container of liquid from her pocket, the one that Nero had given her. She removed the cap. It was a clear, low-viscosity substance with a very faint burning odor to it. Mordea held the vial upright over the pot, and hesitated.

"What are you waiting for?"

Mordea turned around. She was still alone in the kitchen. Had she imagined it?

She looked back at the noodles, and took a deep breath. Her hand was shaking._ I'm just going to render him defenseless and leave. That's all I have to do. I'm not murdering him._

Still, she hesitated. It would just put him to sleep – but she still knew full well what would happen to him if she put him to sleep. He was going to die. A heart that would never beat again. Lungs that would never wring the air again. His warmth would disappear forever. The fire behind those crimson eyes would be extinguished. They would be emptied of that mysterious magic that made them search her eyes.

Mordea retracted the vial and put the cap back on.

A sharp hiss cut through the silence. The voice was there, and it was angry. Invisible hands grabbed her by the throat. It was a good thing that she didn't need the air. "I told you to complete my will!" it roared. "You'll do as I say, whether you like it or not!" It let go of her throat, and the unseen hands instead grabbed her hands and guided them. The cap was taken off of the vial and her arm was stretched out to hold the poison over the pot. Mordea fought it. The voice gripped her arm so hard that its claws dug into her arm, piercing her skin and making her bleed. Then it twisted her arm over to drop the poison into the pot.

"Defy me again, and my claws will be the least of your worries!"

Mordea looked around, waiting to see if the voice was going to harm her again. For what seemed like ages, there was still silence. But the voice wasn't gone. It was always with her.

She looked down at her arm to see the deep holes left by its claws. Her skin was regenerating quickly, right before her eyes. She cleaned the few drops of her dark, rotten blood off the floor and threw away the empty vial. Then she served up the ramen.

The voice had been harsh, but she needed that harshness. She didn't have enough strength to do this on her own. Really, she ought to be thanking the voice; it had just rescued her from the Professor's anger.

Mordea set the plates on the table and was about to go looking for Vincent when she spotted a pair of red eyes coming down the hallway. She turned and sat down at the table.

Vincent sat down and looked at his plate. "Thank you," he said politely.

Mordea was so nervous she couldn't pick up her fork. If her body had possessed the ability to sweat, she'd have been drenched with it by now. She just couldn't do this!

But she already had done it. The voice had done it for her. It was over.

No! There was still time to stop this! He wasn't dead yet!

Vincent was twirling the ramen on his fork, trying to wrap a suitably-sized bite. The burning odor of the poison was masked by the ramen spice. He was oblivious.

Mordea clenched her fists so tight that her palms began to bleed. She had to stop this madness.

"Don't you dare!" the voice snarled. But it had spoken too late.

"STOP!!!" Mordea shouted, grabbing his fork and plate and throwing them against the wall. Poor Vincent was completely stunned. She buried her face in her hands and stood in the corner of the kitchen, with her back to him.

Vincent stood up and walked towards her. "What's wrong? What's going on?"

Without warning, Mordea whirled, grabbing one of the kitchen knives and pressing it against his throat in one smooth motion. Her fighting skills were flawless. With the other hand she grabbed a handful of his shirt and ran forward until he was pinned against the wall. Nero had been right about one thing: she'd caught Vincent completely off-guard.

The knife was pressed so hard against his throat that he began to bleed a little. It wasn't dark, rotten blood like her own; it was red, bright and healthy. Like his eyes. Those eyes that were so full of fire and life.

Mordea was frozen. As she stood there, she somehow began to notice every sound in the room. Sirens on the streets outside. People in the apartments around them – talking, eating, and watching their TVs. Loudest of all was one person standing in front of her, breathing hesitantly. She could hear the living human, troubled though he was. Having a knife against one's throat is the sort of thing that makes the living take very shallow breaths. The living will risk small movements to get the air they need. Yet, they always take the air for granted. They fail to notice the miracle that they carry within them every second of every day.

"Stop listening to him! Listen to me!" the voice shouted. "FINISH IT!!!!"

_I can't. Please don't make me do this._ Slowly, she moved her gaze upward until she met his eyes. Silver eyes locked onto crimson ones.

He stared back, shocked and unwilling to put up a fight. _Perhaps this girl really is Lucretia,_ he thought. _Maybe she's come back for vengeance. It was my fault after all . . . I broke my promise, and she paid for it. This is my punishment. I deserve this. I don't belong in this world. I should have left it long ago._

The living. The innocent. He wasn't a target; he was a human being! It would be murder. He wasn't trying to kill her. He had tried to help her. He never presented any threat whatsoever to her or anyone she cared about. _I don't want to be a murderer._

She was still holding a handful of his shirt. The heel of her hand was resting on his chest, where she could feel a heart beating. He was a miracle – a beautiful, living miracle, and he didn't even seem to notice; he was too busy punishing himself for his sins. But she noticed. She noticed the magic, the fire, the heartbeat. Envy welled up inside of her. It just wasn't fair!

"Ungrateful FOOL!!!" she shouted in his face. She let go of him and planted the knife firmly into the kitchen table before walking out the door and out of the building. Shame and guilt washed through her, making her feel sick. She couldn't seem to walk fast enough, so she began to run.

Vincent snatched Cerberus and his coat off their respective hooks and started chasing after her. He couldn't just let this go. He couldn't let _her_ go, not without answers. He chased her down the dark and nearly desolate streets. With his long, lanky legs, he quickly overtook her, grabbing her shoulder to stop her. Then he quickly took hold of both of her wrists, holding them so tight that she winced. He was determined not to let her get away. "What's going on?" he asked sternly. "Who are you? Why did you come?"

Mordea loathed being held down. She broke free of his grip and grabbed his wrist and claw, pulling him towards her. Then she push-kicked him in the stomach as he was being pulled forward, causing him to stumble back a bit. She wasn't really interested in injuring him. She tried to run off again, but Vincent wasn't going to let her go. She hadn't answered his questions. He tried to grab her again with his claw. She reached across the top of the claw, grabbed the opposite side of his palm, and flipped his hand over, putting him in an inverted wrist lock. It didn't cause him any pain, but the metal prosthesis creaked and groaned, threatening to snap. Still unwilling to injure him, she let go of the lock and pushed him backwards. She stepped into a deep stance as she pushed him, giving her enough force to move him back several feet. Vincent was surprised. He was quite a bit bigger than her – but he was a gunman, not a martial artist. Hand-to-hand combat had never been his specialty. Back when he was testing to enter the Turks, he'd re-taken the hand-to-hand portion of the test. His superiors had always been careful to assign him distance shooting jobs.

After a moment, Mordea stood up straight from her fighting stance and faced him squarely. "You must let me go. Do not follow, do not ask questions. You must also run; don't even go back to your apartment. Nero would be waiting for you back there. Get out of this city, tonight. Don't look back. And for goodness' sake, don't ever trust people like me!!!" Then she turned to leave.

"Why?" he shouted. "Who sent you?"

She stopped. "The Professor."

Vincent couldn't be absolutely sure who that "Professor" was, but he had a pretty good idea. It made sense, considering the familiar appearance of the beast that had been chasing her. But why had it been chasing her, if she was allied with this Professor? Had it all been a set-up? The thought of it sent chills down his spine.

Mordea started running again. That voice was very angry with her – cursing her and dragging its claws up and down the inside of her back. She refused to give into it. She just needed to get away. There was no way Mordea could go back to the lab now; not after this. She just kept running.

Vincent's mind was spinning. _The Professor._ That raised more possible reasons for why Rozu looked so much like Lucretia, reasons that he didn't like to think about. But if Hojo was still alive, he needed to know more about it. He started running again, trying to catch up with her. "Wait! Rozu!" He wanted a full explanation.

Vincent stopped short as a dark figure ran out from the shadows and grabbed her. Nero had torn his arms loose from his suit and was trying to grab hold of her. Each time he tried to grab, she'd circle her own arm around his and break his grip. She gave him one good kick in the ribs, resulting in a soft _crunch_. She wasn't going to take it easy on Nero like she had with Vincent. Nero's loyalty to the Professor was far greater than any friendship with her, and since she had disobeyed the Professor on two counts, she knew she would receive no mercy from Nero. Nero doubled over and stumbled backwards, holding his side. It looked like she had gained the upper hand, and she backed away, preparing to run again. Suddenly, the end of one of Nero's skeletal steel wings folded outward and stretched towards her. It impaled her through the shoulder and pinned her to a nearby tree. She screamed, grabbing onto the wing with her other hand in an attempt to hold herself up. Her feet were dangling in the air.

Those cruel-looking wings also doubled as guns. Nero pointed the other one up at her and fired a warning shot next to her face, then aimed the barrel straight at her head. He turned to Vincent. "Give yourself up, or she dies."

"No, Vincent!" she shouted. "I can't die! They can't hurt me! Just run! Hurr–" she stopped and winced as Nero twisted the wing that had impaled her.

Vincent reached inside his coat for his gun. Nero responded by firing a bullet that grazed her face, leaving a deep gash in her cheek, before Vincent could even get his gun out of his coat. Then Nero aimed back at her face again, threatening. "Put down your gun, Vincent Valentine," Nero grumbled slowly. "This is non-negotiable. You will surrender or she will die."

Four hired mercenaries stepped out of the shadows with their weapons pointed at Vincent. The fifth carried large, strange-looking rings – magnetic shackles that were activated by remote control. Nero had come prepared; he didn't trust Mordea.

Vincent reluctantly put down his gun and allowed them to bind his hands and feet. He couldn't take the chance. He wasn't going to risk losing her again. He didn't want to make the same mistake twice.

"No!" Mordea yelled again. "Don't listen to him! Fight them and run! I can't die!" The gash across her cheek had regenerated, leaving no trace that it had ever existed, but by then Vincent was already safely chained up.

Nero clicked his tongue at her. "He's not going to do that, dear. Like I told you before – he's a nice guy. And after the Professor has disposed of you, he's going to take care of Valentine himself."

_Even though I failed . . . I'll still get my reward?_ The Professor would never be so kind. Perhaps Nero was just taunting her. Still, she wanted it to be true. She longed for nothingness.

Nero ordered the mercenaries to chain her as well before finally retracting his wing. The group hauled her and Vincent back to the lab. It was a massive complex, hidden underground below the ruins of an old Shin-Ra company office. It had once been the nerve center of the entire company's science department. Most of it was not in use; they had to walk for a while before reaching the main, active part of the lab.

The Professor was there waiting for them. When he saw Mordea, he laughed. "I find it hard to believe that you were such a coward!" he cackled. "You had the guts to use your son and your beau as test subjects. If you really have so little respect for human life, why can't you muster the guts close up your experiments?"

"Test subjects? Experiments?" she stuttered, thoroughly confused. "But– sir! I don't know how to do experiments!"

The Professor punched her so hard that she fell over backwards. Her lip bled, but only for a moment before regenerating. She'd expected it – not only had she failed him, but she had disobeyed his orders and tried to run away again. Even though the damage from the blow healed quickly, she refused to move. She laid where she had fallen, staring at the ground. She didn't dare to look up at the Professor. Mordea knew from experience that anything besides absolute submission would bring on harsher beatings. Since she was indestructible, the Professor could do anything he wanted for as long as he wanted, without any risk of permanently damaging her.

Vincent began to struggle violently against his chains when she was struck. The moment Vincent saw the Professor, his blood began to boil. It was indeed Hojo. There was no other person on the planet who he hated more than Hojo. Hojo was supposed to have been dead, killed many years ago in the incident with Sephiroth. Unfortunately, that monster had been resourceful enough to evade death yet again.

Hojo noticed Vincent's furious struggle. It took all five of the mercenaries to control him. "Vincent Valentine," Hojo said, taking a couple of steps towards Vincent. "You don't seem to like that very much, do you?" He turned and soccer-kicked Mordea in the stomach. Then he laughed and turned towards Vincent again. "At first, I was going to have you killed immediately. But now I can see that it will be far more entertaining if I let you see the show first."

Knowing that Hojo would gladly harm her further just to make him angry, he stopped struggling. If looks could kill, Hojo would have been dead seven times over by now. Vincent thought Hojo looked a bit uglier than last time. All of Hojo's exposed skin was blotchy and discolored. _Probably the result of yet another botched experiment._

Vincent was so tempted to release Chaos – but there was too great a risk of them killing Rozu before he had the chance to stop them. In hostage situations, timing was everything – down to the last millisecond. The Chaos transformation would take too long.

"How do you like my sense of humor?" Hojo asked Vincent, motioning towards Mordea. "Do you remember her face?"

_Of course. _That face was something Vincent could never, ever forget.

"It really is a pity she didn't kill you. I wanted to see the look on your face when she did," Hojo chuckled. "At least she helped to bring you in – I couldn't have done any of this without her." The Professor reached down and yanked Mordea to her feet, then caressed her face, gloating. "Take them to the third level. Make sure they share the same cage," he said, grabbing her by the hair and throwing her at Nero's feet.

The third level was where all the non-humanoid test subjects were kept. It was very noisy when they entered the room; hundreds of shrieks and growls from the various creatures housed there made it impossible for the mercenaries to hear each other speak. The smell was even more overpowering than noise – ever since the official fall of Shin-Ra, Hojo had lost his funding and no longer had Shin-Ra employees to do his bidding and clean the cages. The third level was always dirty.

Once Vincent and Mordea were securely locked inside the cage, the mercenaries turned off their magnetic shackles, allowing the prisoners to move their arms and legs freely. Then the mercenaries left. They would stand guard outside the door, but none of them were willing to stand guard inside that horrid-smelling room. Nero dimmed the lights once more as he exited the room, causing the creatures to settle down. The noise quickly subsided.

Vincent had so many questions to ask her, but didn't know where to begin. It also took him a while to get past the smell so that he could force himself to breathe and talk.

He decided to ask the question that was bothering him most: "Where did you come from? Why do you look so much like Lucretia?"

His question was met with a cold silence.

Vincent tried again, louder this time. "Where did you come from?"

She still didn't answer. She just stood motionless with her back to him. He reached to touch her upper arm with his hand. She was still wearing that green Hello Kitty dress, which had small cap sleeves on it. He had just taken his glove off. When his hand reached her, it landed on skin. He flinched away immediately. Her skin was icy-cold – the same temperature as the metal bars of the cell they were in.

"That's right," she said in a hopeless, angry voice. "I told you he couldn't kill me." She turned to look at him. "It's because I'm dead already."

He stood silent and unmoving, trying to take it in. He waited patiently for more of an explanation.

"My real name is Mordea. Several years ago, the Professor created me, just as I am now. I have always been undead." She studied him for a response, but he just stared back at her, waiting to hear more. "I was created to kill you. Ever since my existence began, the Professor has arranged for me to be trained to kill. I am the perfect weapon, for no one can kill what is already dead. I can't be harmed either, really – my body is capable of regenerating itself." She grabbed her sleeve and pulled it sideways to expose more of her shoulder, showing him the spot where Nero had impaled her. "It was healed before we even reached the lab."

Vincent directed his gaze to the floor. _She must be a clone. He sent her clone to kill me. That creep . . . He took advantage of her in life, and now he dishonors her memory!_

"Now that I have failed to fulfill my purpose, the Professor will probably dispose of me. The continuance of my existence . . . is none of your concern. I wish you had not surrendered." Her voice had softened. "You don't deserve to be here."

Vincent remained silent. He wasn't going to apologize. Immortal or not, he wouldn't have allowed Nero to continue shooting her. It wasn't right. The ability to heal didn't make any of the abuse okay.

One question was nagging at him though: "Mordea . . . if you're immortal, then how can Hojo say that he's going to kill you?"

She paused a moment. "Well . . . I can't be killed by normal means because I regenerate. I can even regrow entire limbs and organs. But . . . if my entire body was completely destroyed all at once, there would be nothing left of me to regenerate. He will most likely find some way to vaporize me."

After a few minutes, Mordea sat down and leaned against the bars of the cage and closed her eyes. She looked so relaxed and peaceful, even while facing the end of her existence. She was used to this – both the abuse and the cold steel bars. It was all she had ever known. She acted like it was normal. She was back home.

It explained a few things. Most people were very nervous around Vincent when they first met him. His 30-year sleep in a coffin – combined with the alterations to his body before that – had resulted in a very strange appearance. The red eyes, wild hair, intimidating stature and mode of dress, and cruel-looking metal claw frightened people. No one ever wanted to sit next to him on the bus or subway. Rozu, on the other hand, never once flinched. She didn't even seem to notice that he was different. It was because the only thing she'd known during her short life was the freak show of Hojo's lab. Vincent looked quite normal when compared to the likes of Nero.

_Rozu._ Whose idea had that name been? The faux name fit her about as well as that Hello Kitty dress. She was a lab rat. An outcast. A kindred spirit.

Mordea still carried that book with her – the one that told of the fate of humanity. It seemed appropriate, now that she was finally on the verge of obtaining the nothingness she had longed for.

She went back to those first few pages. Last time, she had skimmed over them. She wanted to read again about how it used to be in the beginning.

"In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth . . . And God saw that it was good." He created the first day. It was mind-boggling to think that any entity could create time itself. The Professor certainly couldn't do that. God surpassed the Professor.

The end of that first account was sad. Pain and suffering, eternal death. There was no point in knowing about unavoidable eternal punishment. The girl on the sidewalk talked about life. Where was that story?

_That spot a little past the middle of it . . ._ There it was. It told of how God sent his Son, a divine being in a fully human body. That Son showed people how to live by God's laws by descending into the accursed filthy world, living humbly as a mere human and becoming a living example of how to keep God's laws. He never broke a single rule. _But he went where we can't follow . . . _All_ are imperfect._ This Son couldn't be duplicated. Such perfection could not be attained, even by the book's own admission.

That wasn't the reason the Son came. He was sent as a sacrifice to establish a new covenant. Humanity's sins required blood as payment, a way to escape eternal death. Until the arrival of the Son, the blood of beasts was given to atone for breaking the laws. The Son was a supreme sacrifice – more precious than the blood of a thousand beasts. It would end the need for animal sacrifice and begin a new covenant between God and humanity – a covenant in which sins were not simply covered up with blood, but actually forgiven. _That_ was what would allow people to live anew. The dead would be reborn, allowed to live anew. It broke the curse.

The girl's words echoed through her mind. "Do you want to live?"

_That would be nice – but I don't know if I can. When it comes right down to it, I don't think I deserve . . ._

"But if you just _accept_ the gift–"

It wasn't about deserving it. It was about accepting it. It was choosing to allow God to forgive and grant new life. It was abandoning the "habit" of breaking the laws and starting all over again.

_It's . . ._

She clapped the book shut and stared at the floor.

"What book is that?" Vincent asked quietly.

"It's . . ."

Vincent waited, but she never finished. Slowly, she closed her mouth and lowered her eyes to her lap.

_It's too much. It's so big. It's . . . my whole world . . ._

At that moment, one of the mercenaries walked in and flipped the lights back on. All the beasts put out a deafening racket.

Vincent and Mordea's restraints were activated. Mordea dropped the book as the rings on her wrists clapped together with the ones on her ankles. The magnetic rings effectively bundled her hands and feet to each other.

Vincent's restraints were activated one step further. The magnets were turned up so that his bundle of arms and legs were dragged across the floor until the rings were stuck to the metal bars of the cage. They had only come to extract Mordea, and they weren't about to take any chances with Vincent. Nero had said he was "a sneaky one, who bears watching."

One of the mercenaries opened the cage door. "The Professor wants you in the second-level neurological lab," he said to Mordea as he dragged her out of the cage. Her leg restraints were released so that she could walk.

Mordea's mind raced as she was escorted from the room. There wasn't any equipment in that lab that could end her existence. That also was not the room where she had been taken to be punished last time she had escaped. _Has he come up with a new form of punishment?_

They locked the cage, released Vincent's restraints, and dimmed the lights again as they left the room. The restraints were activated and deactivated on his captors' whim. Vincent did not like the magnetic restraints at all. All his enhanced strength could not make the rings budge, even when they were only activated to the lowest level. He hated everything about it – the cages, the experiments, the torment – this feeling of powerlessness. He hated that the nightmare refused to die, even after they'd fought Hojo and left him for dead. He hated that Mordea was suffering the same way he'd suffered back then. She was completely broken inside, seeking death as her only hope. It was like looking at a picture of his past self.

Vincent hadn't been this angry in years. It tore open old wounds and rubbed sand in them. It was boiling him from the inside out. He was locked securely in a cage while they were doing goodness-knows-what to her. All he could do was sit and wait. It was all happening again. It was closing in around him. He could still hear Hojo's maniacal laugh echoing in his mind. Hojo would once again take away everything he'd ever held dear.

_I vowed I would never go back to that coffin. I won't let him break me again. Never again! This can't be allowed to happen!_

Vincent stopped himself. Unseen beneath his heavy coat, the skin on his back was rippling. Terrible black wings fidgeted beneath his skin. They wanted out. They fed on his rage and pled for blood as their dessert. In battle, their bloodlust could be harnessed for the sake of good. But in this cage, they would only fling themselves vainly against the bars and squander his precious strength. He needed to calm down.

Trying to find something else to occupy his mind, Vincent picked up the book and tried to read from the same spot Mordea had been looking at. He wanted to know what had made her react so strangely.

Mordea was gone for quite a while. He read a lot of the book – all about the fall of humanity, their punishment, and the new covenant brought in with the sacrifice of a Flawless One. God himself in a human body. He said he would _forgive_ sins instead of just covering them up with blood.

_But I don't deserve forgiveness._

It was a very strange book – there was no action required to earn this forgiveness. There was no criteria for certain people to be forgiven. According to the text, no one deserved forgiveness; all of them were undeserving like Vincent. But people were still forgiven, because it didn't matter whether or not they deserved it.

There was one story that caught Vincent's attention. The entire book was set in ancient times, where there was an extremely primitive environment. Sickness and death were rampant. The Flawless One, Jesus, possessed the ability to heal others. This attracted a great number of crowds. There were also people who flocked in great numbers to hear him preach. Jesus was talking inside a building, and the crowd was poured into the building so thick that no one could get through. A crippled man wanted to be healed, but could not get through the crowd. So the man's friends climbed up on the roof, tore a hole in the ceiling, and lowered the crippled man down in front of Jesus on a mat. Jesus healed the man of course, but there was one thing he said before healing him: "Your sins are forgiven." The man hadn't asked for it. He probably didn't deserve it. But he was forgiven.

Years ago, a friend had asked Vincent a question. "Can sins be forgiven?"

"I've never tried." At that time, Vincent had not wanted forgiveness. It just didn't seem right after all the things he'd done. It was too easy. Even now, he was not sure if he really wanted forgiveness.

Had the crippled man _wanted_ forgiveness?

* * *

Before being taken all the way to the lab, she was ordered to change back into her lab robes. Mordea was glad to comply; the clothes outsiders wore were itchy and uncomfortable. The robes were specifically designed for the test subjects; they had easy-open zippers on both the front and back, and loose sleeves that could be quickly pulled out of the way so IVs could be put in. It was the Professor's versatile, efficient (and more modest) version of a hospital gown.

Once they arrived at the neurological lab, Mordea was strapped into a seat that was similar to a dental chair. Around the headrest were three thin, curved prongs, each about ten inches long. Once she was secured, the machine hummed to life and the prongs clamped onto her head like a falcon's claw.

The Professor began the awakening program and got out of his chair. "Take her back to the cage when the cycle is complete." He left the room to find more interesting things to do while the machine followed its course.

Mordea remained conscious during the procedure – just barely. She could feel things changing inside her mind. Thoughts and images she didn't recognize bounced around inside her head like ping-pong balls. She couldn't think straight. Things were coming into her mind, but they were completely disorganized. It was like trying to put together a 5,000-piece puzzle while a tornado was blowing the pieces around. The process went on for hours.

When they finally brought her back, she had her eyes closed and was trembling all over. Once the cage was locked and Vincent's restraints were released, he went over to her. She was just so cold. He took off his coat and draped it over her.

"Put your coat back on, Vincent Valentine," she grumbled. "You need it more than I do."

"But you're shivering."

"I'm not shivering! I'm twitching! And my head feels like someone played a volleyball tournament with it! Now leave me alone!" She threw off the coat, crawled into a corner and curled up, slowly rubbing her temples. She couldn't ever remember having a headache of this magnitude in her life. It was making her dizzy and nauseous. The Professor hadn't inflicted any damage to her tissues, and even if he had, it should have regenerated by now. Continuing pain like this could only be caused by artificial implants that her body couldn't "heal" away. He must have activated some sort of machinery inside her brain. She wanted to scream, but she knew that would only make her head feel worse.

She was also seeing flashes – thousands of images from one person's life. There weren't any new pieces coming in, but the pieces were still flying around crazily. It was as if the Professor had downloaded someone else's lifetime memories into her brain.

This was just the first stage. The computer had systematically unlocked the encrypted data within her mind. There was a short "overload period" before the final plunge. The data wouldn't be of any use unless it was reassembled. Each bit of data had to be filed into the spot where it had been over 30 years ago.

Mordea's body shook violently, and then went still. She was completely limp.

"Mordea?" Vincent touched her arm, but there was no response. He started to reach to check her pulse, then caught himself. How was he supposed to know whether or not she was still "alive?" Was she really dead this time, or was she just unconscious?

A body like hers could not be destroyed so easily. She was simply sealed off from the outer world as her memories – yes, _her_ memories – were strung together and played systematically from the beginning. The data was fully decrypted. The past was unlocked.


	2. Part 2: Remembrance

_**Readers,**_

_**[Disclaimer] Please note that this entire section – part 2 – is based largely on Vincent Valentine's original story. Using Wikipedia and some "Dirge of Cerberus" cutscenes I found on Youtube, I pieced together the story of Vincent's past that is written and owned by Square Enix. I wrote this mainly so that those who didn't know his background would know what was going on, and also so that those who did know the background would be able to figure out where I made my non-canon changes. I didn't duplicate the background story exactly because some changes were necessary to make my fanfic plot make sense. I'm also not a big fan of Japanese-translated-into-English dialogue. Some things were added simply to fill in the gaps because Square Enix didn't really focus on laying out the entire story novel-style; after all, Final Fantasy is a video game! Anyway, bottom line is, Vincent's backstory (and all the characters in this fanfic) are owned by Square Enix. I didn't come up with this part on my own.**_

_**However, the parts that I filled in -- the stuff I made up -- is entirely mine. Do not attempt to take credit for it.**_

_**Okay, you can get back to reading the story now . . .**_

She had been so happy when they found the cave. Dr. Crescent, a young biogeneticist for Shin-Ra, was still trying to complete her thesis – research on Omega and Chaos. For several months, it had seemed that she'd hit a wall. She later enlisted the aid of Dr. Valentine, a paleontologist, in an attempt to locate the birthplace of Omega and Chaos. With his assistance, she had finally reached the fountain that carried the mako from which Chaos would come forth.

"Is this it?" she asked him. "Is this really the place?"

"Yes – at least, according to the Cetra manuscripts. This should be the grotto where Chaos is destined to awaken."

Dr. Crescent ran towards the fountain excitedly, trying not to drop her gear. She couldn't wait to collect a sample. "C'mon, Dr. Valentine!" she shouted over her shoulder. Looking away had caused her to stumble. She had always been a bit accident-prone.

"Take it easy!" he said, chuckling. "The fountain isn't going anywhere!" Dr. Valentine was a tall, distinguished middle-aged man. His dark hair was just beginning to grey. He was in good shape for his age, but not too anxious to run around. He walked quickly and carefully to catch up with her.

Dr. Crescent put her gloves on and set up her equipment to safely extract a sample from the fountain. In her haste, she stepped too close to the edge of the spring. The ground beneath her foot collapsed.

Luckily, Dr. Valentine had arrived in time to catch her arm. "Slow down. A few seconds isn't going to change the sample."

She glanced at the mako occasionally while setting up the mobile containment chamber. It was a very dark blue, almost black. This mako source must have been tainted by something. Judging by the smell, the mako was old and stagnated as well, probably coming from very deep within the planet.

As they began the collection process, she noticed something odd about the motion of the mako. Of course, it was moving because it was an active fountain, and the liquid was churning about – but it seemed to be more turbulent than it should have been. Mako bubbled out at the center of the fountain, causing ripples to spread out to the edge of the pool. Somehow, the ripples seemed far more dynamic and turbulent than the ripples of any other fountain she'd ever seen. It was almost as if the mako was moving independently.

She got a strange feeling when looking at it. Curious, she carefully stretched out her gloved hand and let it hover just a few centimeters above the surface of the mako. It seemed to be stirred up by her presence and grew more turbulent below her hand.

Dr. Valentine grabbed her arm and pulled her back, startling her. "If our theories are correct," he said ominously, "it would be wise to keep your distance."

Dr. Crescent nodded and finished collecting the sample in silence. They were starting to pack up when she noticed something glimmering in the shadows on the far side of the fountain. She walked over and picked it up. It was a white materia. She showed it to Dr. Valentine. "Is this . . . what I think it is?"

He smiled. "I believe this is indeed the protomateria."

Excited, she put it in a separate container. They carefully brought everything back to the lab and transferred the mako to a more secure containment chamber, suspending it in an aqueous solution. By the time they'd placed it in there, the mako had become noticeably agitated. It looked like a tightly-knit dark amorphous cloud with portions of it stretching out, whipping around, and folding back into the center very rapidly – almost like plasma on the sun's surface. It seemed to be alive.

The mako sample – or G-substance (Genesis substance), as she was calling it in her report – never seemed to calm down after being transferred. It remained highly turbulent.

Tired of monitoring the instrument panels, Dr. Crescent opened her thesis file and started adding to it. She was typing quite excitedly when Dr. Valentine entered the room. He watched over her shoulder for a moment, looking at what she was writing. "Don't you think you're taking things a little too quickly?" he asked.

"And why not move quickly?" she responded. "All of those people at Shin-Ra who laughed at my thesis – I have to prove them wrong!" It had been so awful to face that crowd during her presentation. At the beginning of the seminar, she tripped as she was stepping up onto the stage, causing her to spill her water and drop her notes. The embarrassment from her own physical clumsiness was bad enough by itself, but having her theories laughed at made her want to crawl under a rock. They were respectful enough not to jeer, but the snickers and whispers quickly ate away at her confidence. The end of the seminar was the worst: the question-and-answer portion. They were merciless. It seemed to make matters worse that she was the only female scholar in the room. It didn't matter that she had graduated at the top of her class; they all treated her like she didn't deserve to be there.

"Rushing into matters will get you nowhere, Doctor," he said quietly.

She hesitated a moment in her typing, then continued with renewed vigor. Why should it matter whether or not she moved quickly? The research would be done the same, whether it was quick or slow. As long as she didn't cut corners in the methods, the results would be the same.

Dr. Valentine turned around to watch the G-substance. It seemed to have grown from the last time he'd come in to observe it. He turned to look at the instrument panel. The pressure inside the containment tube was increasing rapidly. "Dr. Crescent . . ."

She spun in her seat and stood up to look at the G-substance. It had indeed grown – it was nearly the same size as the containment tube. Suddenly, the glass began to crack. A long, thin arm of G-substance punched through the tube and was headed straight for her. Dr. Valentine reacted quickly enough to push her out of the way, but the bulk of the G-substance hit his hand.

Dr. Crescent ran over to him. "Dr. Valentine! Are you alright?"

"I'll be fine," he said, wincing. The G-substance was rapidly being absorbed into his body, expanding and creeping up his arm as she watched.

Dr. Crescent was at a loss. She had never seen mako, tainted or otherwise, act this way. It was spreading too quickly. She tried to scrape some of it off, but it was futile. The G-substance was spreading deep beneath his skin, eating onto his tissues.

She started to run to get one of the other researchers, but Dr. Valentine grabbed her arm. His voice was cracking. "Tell my son . . . that . . . I'm sorry . . ." Seconds later, the G-substance had eaten completely through his lungs. He was dead. His body disintegrated rapidly, leaving behind only a few tiny shreds of clothing. Those too were soon eaten away.

Horrified, Dr. Crescent ran out of the lab, stepping around the puddles of G-substance scattered across the floor. She sealed the door behind her and quarantined the lab. Then she sank to the floor, crying. She had failed to heed his advice, and now he was dead. Her selfish ambition and lack of patience had gotten a good colleague killed.

* * *

Dr. Crescent took a couple months off before returning to her research. When she did, she returned to the cave with a team of well-equipped lab assistants wearing full quarantine gear. This time, the container they brought with them was a giant multi-layered tube that was designed to withstand violent explosions. It was set up so that they could collect the G-substance directly into the container. The container itself would be moved, but the G-substance would not be removed after the container was sealed. The other researchers at Nibelheim chided her for being overly cautious and wasting grant money, but she didn't care. If lives were at stake, she would spend as much as she had to in order to keep everyone safe. Such research should never be life-threatening.

Several weeks later, Dr. Crescent was informed that her funding would be re-directed to the Jenova project. The Shin-Ra company had a greater interest in Jenova than it did in the Chaos-Omega theory. Fortunately, the bulk of the Jenova research was being done just down the hallway from the lab where she had been working on Chaos. She would be allowed to keep the G-substance and monitor it in her time off, but the only work she'd be paid for was the work on Jenova. Having her project shut down was disheartening, but Jenova was a high-profile, high-status project. It was an honor to be respected enough to be assigned to such a project. She was ordered to begin immediately.

Jenova was fascinating. It was an alien entity that had been discovered in the northern crater, almost completely intact. It was alive and functioning on a cellular level, but it wouldn't move or communicate. Most interesting was the ability of its cells to continue to thrive even after being separated from the body. If a tissue sample was removed, the tissue continued to live on its own. Jenova could survive as either a unicellular or multicellular organism.

Professor Hojo, who was heading up the project, seemed mostly interested in how Jenova's cells affected humans. So far, the results were fascinating. It appeared that Jenova could lead them into a new era. The data thus far indicated that Jenova cells could be used to prolong life and youth, and give humans extraordinary strength and speed. Super-soldiers could be created.

As part of a project as high-profile as this, Dr. Crescent was required to sign a confidentiality agreement and comply with strict security protocols. She would also be assigned a bodyguard.

* * *

Vincent Valentine followed the directions carefully. It was his first time visiting Nibelheim, but the Shin-Ra mansion wasn't hard to find – it was built high up on the mountain slope above the town. It stood out ominously, keeping an unblinking watch over the town. It just didn't fit with such a quaint little village.

The quiet, remote location meant there was little chance of attack. It would probably be boring – guard duty of any kind always was. But at least it would give him time to think. Research projects could stretch on for months or even years.

After his recent experience with that job that went sour, he had been trying to figure out how to quit Shin-Ra. He knew that he could be killed for quitting – or at the very least, he would spend the rest of his life running from Shin-Ra. Where would he run to anyway? The only thing he valued anymore was his work. He couldn't think of any other thing to spend his life doing. Besides, after what he'd done, he probably deserved death . . . why not just let them kill him? Better yet, why not do the job himself and save the company some bullets?

He just wasn't sure about his future. Even if he couldn't think of anything to live for, he wasn't quite depressed enough to just kill himself yet. Perhaps he would find a reason for living along the way. Or maybe his life's mission could be searching for a reason to live.

He was sure of one thing: money did not justify shooting innocent people. Nothing could justify it. He couldn't be an assassin anymore, not with those green eyes chasing him. Fortunately, a long-term bodyguard assignment would allow him to think out his options without being required to kill people in the process. He just needed time to heal and deal with it all.

The housekeeper answered the door. "She'll be downstairs in the lab, sir," she said in a thick Scottish accent. "Right this way." The housekeeper seemed nervous, as were most people when they met a Turk. The navy suit struck terror in the hearts of many.

As they walked briskly through the mansion, Vincent looked around him. Most of the walls were either grey stone or dark mahogany paneling. Old portraits of Shin-Ra ancestors adorned the walls. Most of the rooms were lit with candelabras and old wall sconces. A few dim electric lamps had been stuck here and there, like afterthoughts. Vincent found it strange that the mansion owned by a power company would have so few electrical lights. The mansion was even darker and creepier inside than it had looked from the outside.

The housekeeper led him to the top of the stairs that led into the lab. "The science folk oft'n spend most of their time down there – third door on the right. A good day to you sir." Then she hurried off.

_Scientists. Nerds. Geeks._ Most of them were nervous and overly eager to please. Vincent was a man of few words, and geeks liked to chatter at him and bother him when he didn't want to talk. They always asked strange questions and told stupid jokes. Most of them couldn't seem to accept the fact that he didn't like to be questioned constantly. The last time he'd been assigned to be a bodyguard to a scientist, he had been tempted to do away with the scientist himself. _Still,_ he reminded himself, _it's far better than shooting innocents._

Third door on the right. The room was massive. In the center was a creepy-looking thing – a blue humanoid (apparently female) with its arms wrapped around behind itself. Protruding from the back was a pair of red wings, one of which seemed to have been partly burned off. There were many large burn marks on its skin. Its "hair" was in thick clumps, almost resembling tentacles. Its eyes were closed as if it were asleep. A mass of wires and tubes spilled out of its abdomen, connecting to the sides of the chamber it was contained in. There was a wide metal halo of sorts, with more wires attaching the halo – and the containment tube – to its head. The nameplate on the front of the halo read "Jenova."

_So this is Jenova?_ When Vincent had heard about the project, he'd imagined "Jenova" as a small chunk of tissue or something. The real thing was decidedly more threatening-looking than he'd thought it would be. Shin-Ra's new favorite discovery was the ugliest thing Vincent had ever seen.

Several assistants were running around, going about their business. One scientist with bulky features and long, dark brown hair kept in a tight ponytail was sitting at a computer, with a stern look on his face.

Vincent approached the man and introduced himself. "Vincent Valentine, reporting for duty, sir. I'm assigned to Dr. Crescent."

Vincent waited, but the scientist ignored him.

"Sir, I've been ordered as a bodyguard for Dr. Crescent."

Still no response.

"Sir – are you Dr. Crescent?"

At that, the man curled his lip, but did not take his eyes off the computer screen. "Of course not! I'm Professor Hojo, the leader of this project!!!"

Vincent was growing irritated. "Well then, could you please tell me where I can find him?"

"_She_ is in her office across the hall!" the man snapped, still refusing to look at Vincent.

"Thank you, sir," Vincent replied grudgingly. He turned around and exited the lab swiftly.

_She? So it's a girl geek this time._ That explained why the company had ordered a bodyguard for a secondary researcher in addition to the project leader. They'd sent an extra bodyguard for the "weaker sex." Shin-Ra had always been rather backwards in its views of women. Vincent was thankful for it, though – he couldn't imagine working as a bodyguard for that jerk back there. _Heh, Marshall's going to have a heck of a time working for that arrogant knothead!_

He was a bit nervous as he approached the room. The door was open, so he knocked on the doorframe. "Dr. Crescent?"

No answer.

He cautiously stepped in, looking around. "Dr. Crescent?" The room was a mess. Files were stacked high on the tables. Bulletin boards were covered with data graphs. A dry-erase board was covered with organic chemistry reactions for complex biomolecules.

"Darn freaky CDK . . . I'll catch you if it's the last thing I ever do . . ." a voice mumbled. It was very quiet and sounded muffled.

Vincent looked in the direction of the voice. It seemed to have come from behind a large desk with tall stacks of files on top of it. He spotted a pair of feet peeking out from beneath the desk. The voice mumbled something completely inaudible. He carefully walked around the desk and spotted the scientist. She had fallen asleep at her desk. Both arms rested on the desk, and her face was turned away from him. Trying to keep up with the Jenova project, while also trying to salvage her Omega/Chaos project during her "spare time," was wearing her out.

"Dr. Crescent?" he said softly, uncomfortable about waking her. He stood there for a moment waiting, unsure about what he should do. Finally, he carefully grabbed her shoulder and shook her a little. "Dr Crescent?"

That finally woke her up. She sat up and turned to look at him, groggily swatting at the piece of paper that was stuck to her cheek.

"Dr. Crescent?"

"Huh?" Her eyes slowly began to focus. A stranger with a deep voice was saying her name. That stranger was also tall and handsome, with jet-black hair and deep ocean-blue eyes. Unfortunately, her glasses were crooked from her head resting on her desk, and that started the whole chain reaction.

The crooked glasses messed up her depth perception, so when she peeled the piece of paper off her face and reached to set it back on the desk, her hand knocked over her cup of coffee. Part of the coffee splashed into the keyboard of her laptop, which sparked a few times before the screen went dark. The rest of the coffee spilled all over the desk. She scrambled to push her papers out of the way before the coffee reached them, but failed to get out of the way before the coffee gushed over the edge of the desk and into her lap. That caused her to jump up out of her chair. Vincent quickly pulled his kerchief out of his suit pocket and reached to dam up the spill at the edge of the desk, but as he stepped forward, he tripped on the edge of a stack of books. Dr. Crescent turned and reached out to catch him, but her glasses fell off and she slipped in the coffee, knocking over a stack of papers as she fell. There was a sickening crunch as she landed on top of her own reading glasses.

The two landed on the floor almost nose-to-nose. He looked bewildered. She stared at him, looking like she wanted to laugh but was afraid to. "Are you alright?" they both asked each other simultaneously. She gave him a crooked grin, while he continued to look surprised. He didn't realize he was staring. She had delicate features, long thick brown hair, and vibrant, dancing brown eyes. She was the most beautiful geek he'd ever seen.

At that moment, one of the lab assistants walked in looking for Dr. Crescent. The assistant started snickering when he saw the scene. Vincent pushed himself up with both hands and turned to give the assistant a look that would curdle fresh milk. The assistant turned and ran.

Dr. Crescent started to giggle. Vincent turned to look at her. He wasn't glaring at her; rather, he looked like he wanted to hide. He started to turn beet red. She quickly clapped a hand over her mouth and blushed, trying to compose herself. "I'm so sorry," she said, pushing herself into a sitting position.

Vincent stood up and helped her to her feet. "Are you alright, ma'am?"

"Yes, thank you. Are you?"

Vincent nodded and began to help her clean up the mess. His face remained red. He was a Turk – the company's most highly-trained assassin and bodyguard. He wasn't supposed to trip, especially in front of someone he was assigned to protect.

When they finished cleaning up, Vincent stood up straight, took a deep breath, and extended his hand. "Vincent Valentine, reporting for duty, ma'am. I've been assigned as your protection."

As he announced his name, the laughter left her eyes and the color drained from her face. She didn't move._ Why would they send . . . his . . ._

"Is everything alright, ma'am?"

Remembering her manners, she put a polite smile on her face and looked up at him. "I'm sorry. This is the first time I've ever met anyone from the Turks." She shook his hand. "Lucretia Crescent. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Valentine."

Vincent pulled a small electronic device from inside his jacket. "Keep this with you at all times. If you ever require assistance, press the button and security will arrive at your location ASAP. Be sure keep an eye on the remaining battery power," he said, pointing to the tiny LCD screen. "Also, your room will need to be secured. I'd like to get that taken care of right now, if that's alright with you."

She nodded consent. "Thank you."

He nodded. "Good day, ma'am." He turned and began to leave.

"Wait – Mr. Valentine. I just wanted to say thanks for scaring off Picklenose."

"Hm?"

"That lab assistant who came in. He's always been really sarcastic and rude . . . it was good to see him run for once." She flashed a big, bashful grin, and her eyes laughed again.

Vincent nodded again, and a small smile fought for control over his face as he turned to leave. He was glad to know that she hadn't been laughing at him after all.

* * *

Vincent went back out to the car and started hauling in all of his equipment. The housekeeper's eyes widened when she saw how many suitcases he had; she'd never expected a man to have so much luggage.

The great volume of luggage was only for Vincent's geeky young charge. The project leader's bodyguard, Marshall, was due to arrive in a couple of days, and he would be bringing just as much as – if not more than – Vincent.

Vincent figured that Marshall would end up being in a very bad mood for the rest of the assignment. That Professor Hojo probably wouldn't be very interested in complying with any security regulations, and Marshall was the least patient member of the Turks.

Vincent explained rules to the housekeeper regarding Lucretia's mail and any visitors that came for her. Then he made sure no one else was staying in the same wing of the mansion as Lucretia; less activity made things easier to monitor. He asked for the room next door Lucretia's.

Vincent worked quickly, hoping to have everything finished before she came back to her room. He was glad to have arrived so early in the morning. He spent the rest of the day drilling, bolting, wiring, and testing. Turks were known for being the best of the best: the most well-trained and most versatile bodyguards. They went all-out. First, the room was swept to check for any bugs or bombs that might already be in the room. Vincent installed a security light outside her window and the window at the end of the hallway. He put up blackout curtains around her window, so that a sniper would not be able to see her and shoot her in her sleep. There were also magnetic and laser sensors around the windows that would sound an alarm if the window was opened or if anything got past the windowsill. There were even laser sensors set just inside all the vents in the room. Vincent installed similar sensors in his own room, in case anyone tried to kill him first so they could more easily harm Dr. Crescent. There was an electronic bell for the door, which would sound every time the door was opened, no matter how quietly or carefully it was opened. A set of laser sensors was also installed at the entrance to the hallway, which would sound a similar "bell" whenever someone entered or exited the hallway. He also put a deadbolt in the door.

It was past midnight when Lucretia came by, done for the day. Vincent was still working; he'd just started on the security cameras. "Shouldn't you take a break?" she asked him.

Vincent climbed off the ladder. "Company policy, ma'am. Turks don't take any chances. We don't sleep until the area is secure."

He started walking towards her room and motioned for her to follow. He showed her where the laser sensors were; she would not be able to open her window without setting them off. She was also asked to keep her blackout curtains closed at all times. He handed her the key to the deadbolt and showed her how to bar the door from the inside.

"Wow," she chuckled as she looked around. "I feel like I'm in a fortress."

Vincent was quiet. She looked so pretty in the candlelight.

"Please don't wear yourself out on my account. I don't think anyone's going to try to kill me tonight." She watched his eyes. He looked sleepy, but determined.

He bowed his head slightly and stepped back. "Have a good night, ma'am."

"You too." Lucretia watched as he went out the door. He was so polite and gracious – a breath of fresh air compared to most of the people she worked with. As one of the few female scientists, she was seldom treated with so much respect. Even her subordinates spoke to her as if she was a child, always explaining basic concepts to her when they gave her a report. Vincent, on the other hand, treated her like she was a queen.

It was nearly dawn when Vincent finished his work. He'd put up security cameras outside all the windows, at the entrance to the hallway, and a couple inside the hallway. He also secured the windows of all the other rooms in that wing and barred their doors from the outside.

Lucretia came out of her room as he barred the last door. She'd had some difficulty sleeping because of the noise. Vincent had been working as quietly as possible, but what little noise he had made reminded her of rats scratching about. It gave her the chills.

She walked down the hallway in a bathrobe, eyes still half-closed. "G'morning," she mumbled as she headed to the kitchen for coffee.

"Good morning, ma'am." He watched her drag her feet down the hallway. The poor woman was working herself into the ground – getting less than five hours of sleep each night. No wonder she'd fallen asleep at her desk yesterday.

Vincent tightened the last bolt and breathed a sigh of relief. The first day was always the most strenuous, but he had finally finished. He started packing up his tools.

The housekeeper, who was always up early, came towards the hallway entrance with a long-handled feather duster. She was sweeping the cobwebs. When she reached the hallway, she let out a loud gasp. Vincent bade her good morning.

"Well!" she snipped, looking around at his work with her hands on her hips. Vincent had drilled holes in the nice wood of the historic mansion to install all of the security equipment. Finally, she let out an angry "Good morning!" and left without sweeping the cobwebs in that particular hallway.

He went into his room and started to unpack his personal belongings. Only one suitcase and a garment bag were for his personal use; the rest of his luggage had been containers for all the equipment. He'd stowed the empty luggage in one of the empty rooms before barring it. He took his suits out and hung them in the closet, then took the smaller items – socks and what-not – and put them in the drawer. The rest of his suitcase was full of guns. He started hiding them in various places around the room (and a few in the house) so that they'd be readily available in a fight.

He went down to the kitchen to check on Dr. Crescent. Company policy wouldn't allow him to take a nap until she was safe in the downstairs lab.

When he walked into the kitchen, she was asleep again, sitting in a chair with her arms on the table and head buried in her arms. The coffee was ready but she hadn't woken up for it. Vincent poured her a cup – and one for himself as well. He knew he would need it.

Still, he couldn't help but notice that she looked quite nice in spite of being so disheveled. She was half-asleep – so tired that it hurt to open her eyes – but there was an aura of hope that seemed to follow her everywhere. It was hope for better times: the knowledge that no matter what discomfort there was in the present, her future remained unwritten.

Vincent set the coffee just in front of her nose. The smell woke her up. "Thank you," she said quietly before drinking it.

He leaned back in his chair and looked out the window. Light was just beginning to creep across the horizon. His eyelids felt so heavy . . .

It was Lucretia's standing up and leaving the room that shook him fully awake again. He slowly finished his coffee. It seemed that he'd been living off of coffee lately. Even on a regular day when he hadn't worked through the night, he was exhausted. What had happened on that last job had shaken him to the core. Green eyes kept calling him "murderer!" Vincent hadn't gotten a single night of uninterrupted sleep since that job. That girl would wake him up every few hours, bringing his own memories in front of him – memories of assassination jobs. He'd been ordered to shoot many, many people who opposed Shin-Ra. She dragged their bodies in and threw them at his feet, yelling, "my daddy is a human being!" Her eyes were on the inside of his eyelids, prying into his soul. "Why do you hate my daddy?" she asked.

Done with his coffee, Vincent waited on the second floor near the grand staircase. From there, he was within hearing distance of Dr. Crescent's room, and he could also see the top of the stairs that led to the lab in the basement. There was only one entrance to those labs; they were a very secure place. But although the single entrance made his job easier, he couldn't help but think that if anything were to go wrong, the labs could easily become a large death-trap . . .

The sun's rays were just peeking over the horizon when she came out with her hair tied back neatly. She pulled her labcoat on as she went down to the lab. Once she was down there, Vincent picked a couch near the lab entrance and tried to take a nap.

* * *

Several days later, Vincent sat down at the table with his sandwich and coffee. The green eyes still plagued his nights, so he'd taken to drinking coffee with every meal. Lucretia sat across from him, eating her lunch. The room was quiet except for the sound of chewing.

Vincent had never felt so compelled to get to know someone before he met Lucretia. In spite of the sleep deprivation they'd caused, the green eyes had still blessed him in a way. He'd awakened to the human beings around him. He couldn't just take people for granted anymore.

He was itching to know Lucretia. He looked for a way into conversation, but as a man of few words, this was his weakest point.

"Nice weather today," he said between bites.

"Sure is," she replied. "Fall is always nice – my favorite season."

Vincent nodded. He opened his mouth to try to say something, and dozens of disjointed words and phrases bounced around wildly inside his head. He couldn't think of anything coherent to say, so he took another bite out of his sandwich.

Lucretia glanced at him with a playful glint in her eye. She had an idea what was going on. She tried to wait patiently.

Vincent continued eating, wracking his brain for something good to talk about. He was quickly running out of sandwich. He tried to eat slower, but the nervousness made him want to chew too fast. What was something she would be interested in?

He had just swallowed the last bite of his sandwich when he finally blurted something out. "What's CDK?"

"Cyclin-Dependent Kinase," she answered quickly, still chewing.

Vincent looked down at his empty plate, replaying her voice inside his head. It sounded like a foreign language. He was trying to figure out whether it really was a foreign language, or if it just sounded that way because she was still chewing. He was too nervous to ask her to repeat it.

Lucretia finally swallowed and finished her sentence. "It's a type of protein that regulates cell division. Why do you ask?"

"It's . . . just something you said back when I first came here and met you in your office – what you said while you were asleep," Vincent answered carefully. Perhaps this hadn't been a very good idea. It was turning into a strange topic.

"Oh!" She blushed. "What exactly did I say?"

"Just . . . 'darn freaky CDK.'"

Lucretia just laughed. "Oh, I was probably having that dream about hunting them down again." She turned bright red the moment those words were out of her mouth.

Vincent just gave her a politely quizzical look.

"It's . . . um . . . part of the research we're doing. You see, Jenova's cells are highly unusual. They seem to be capable of sustaining themselves indefinitely, whether they're on their own or still part of her body. When they're part of her body, they don't divide at all. All organisms native to this planet have cells that are constantly dying, so they need to divide and replace themselves to continue on. Jenova, on the other hand, doesn't have any cells that die. They're not replacing themselves. It would appear that they don't need to under normal circumstances. However, her body is damaged – she was damaged when we found her. Even though her vital signs remain stable, she won't wake up. Her cells also are not dividing to repair the damage done to her body."

Any ordinary person would've excused themselves at that point, but Vincent had paid attention. "So . . . does that mean Jenova doesn't have this CDK?"

Lucretia was impressed to find that he'd actually listened. "We've found that she does have it, but it's chemically different from any of the CDK found in organisms on this planet. However, when her cells are injected into animal test subjects, the specimens gain the ability to regenerate any wound – heal themselves. The specimens' cells also seem to know exactly when to stop dividing; they don't over-divide and cause cancer like most other experimental regenerative drugs have. It's possible that we've found both immortality and the cure for cancer, but Jenova's cells are limited. Even if we used up all of Jenova in treating people who were deathly ill, there would only be enough to treat less than a tenth of a percent of those who needed it. My part of the project is to track down the chemical responsible for this behavior and synthesize it into a drug . . . and I think the key is in Jenova's CDK."

"Do you ever catch them?"

"Huh?"

"When you chase them in your dreams – do you ever catch them?"

She turned red again. "No, not quite. I suppose that's because they've been really hard to extract. They're unusually fragile. I can't seem to catch them without breaking them."

Vincent liked seeing her talk. Her eyes lit up when she talked about her work; it was something she was really excited about. She just seemed so lively and happy. He wanted to see her talk more. "Why do you need to catch them?"

"I can't start finding a way to synthesize them unless I know their chemical structure – and I need to get a really good look at them before I can figure that out. I have to catch enough of those little buggers to run them through the machines."

At that moment, Hojo came and stood in the doorway of the kitchen. "Break's over." He gave a nasty look to Vincent and then left.

Vincent just stared as Hojo walked back down the hallway. _What's that guy's problem?_

Lucretia hurriedly cleaned up her plate. "I . . . um . . . have to go."

Vincent nodded. "Have a good afternoon, ma'am."

"Lucretia," she corrected. "Call me Lucretia."

He nodded again. "Have a good afternoon, Lucretia."

Lucretia stopped in the doorway and turned towards him. "Um . . . have a good day, Mr. Valentine."

He noticed that she always looked a bit upset when addressing him formally. "If you wish for me to call you Lucretia, then you must call me Vincent."

"Alright then!" Her face brightened. "See you later!" She turned and ran to the lab.

Time passed, and their conversations slowly became more frequent – and a little more relaxed. Friendship was budding.

* * *

One morning, Vincent checked through the mail as usual. This time there was a package. He went over it with a metal detector wand before opening it. It contained several small bottles of chemicals. He slowly pulled them out one by one, looking through the packaging to make sure there were no threats. Once it had been thoroughly checked out, he put the bottles back in the box and carried it downstairs.

Lucretia was standing at the lab bench, pipetting a very tiny bit of liquid into a small glass vial. She was putting the cap on as Vincent walked into the lab and held the box out to her.

"Perfect timing!" she exclaimed as she took the box. She dug through it and pulled out one of the bottles. She pipetted some liquid out of the bottle and put it into the tiniest beaker he'd ever seen, mixing the liquid with something that was already in the beaker. Then she diluted the mixture and put a tiny bit of it into an LC-MS injection vial. Even with the dilution, there was only enough liquid to fill two LC-MS injection vials.

A lab tech was working at the bench behind her, who was bobbing his head to the music being played in his headphones, backed up at just the wrong moment. He bumped her elbow and both vials went flying. She reached out to grab them and missed. Luckily, Vincent managed to catch them before they hit the ground. She breathed a sigh of relief.

The lab tech turned around and looked at Lucretia. "Whoa! Good thing we finally have someone around to make up for your oh-so-smooth moves, _Doctor!_" he mocked. It was the same lab tech that had come in to Lucretia's office the day Vincent first arrived.

She grabbed the wires to the tech's headphones and gave a sharp tug, pulling the cord loose from his iPod and ripping the buds out of his ears. "Get out of my lab," she growled.

Up close, Vincent could see why Lucretia had referred to that lab tech as "Picklenose." Located between the tech's greasy hair and arrogant sneer was an unusually large nose, with a colony of unusually large zits living on it.

Vincent responded to the sneer with a cold stare that wiped the contempt right off Picklenose's face. The tech quickened his pace as he left the lab.

Lucretia turned and walked towards Vincent, smiling sheepishly. "Thank you so much for catching that," she said as she took the glass tube. "This is the CDK I was telling you about. It took me about eight weeks to extract it."

"So you finally caught them," he said with a slight smile.

"I guess so," she grinned. She stood there for a moment smiling at him before she finally caught herself. "I, uh, better run this sample before anything else happens." She chuckled and went towards the LC-MS machine.

Vincent took his leave and tried to shake the grin off his face as he left the lab. He was in a very pleasant mood for several days after that.

* * *

Over time, Vincent got to know Lucretia better and better. He never got a very good understanding of the science involved, but he still liked to hear about it. He understood just enough of it that he could ask questions to keep her talking. He just wanted to sit and see her eyes sparkle when she talked about the things that she liked. As time went on though, she opened up about her past and the reasons she got into science. As a child, Lucretia had gotten herself into a lot of trouble by sticking her fingers in places she shouldn't. Science taught her the proper procedures so that she could stick her fingers into places without getting bitten or burned as often, she said.

Eventually it got to where he didn't always have to be asking questions when they were together. Sometimes they just sat quietly, resting and enjoying each other's company. There was no more pressure to be chatting constantly.

Lucretia had a much harder time getting to know Vincent. He was so quiet. She noticed that she was always doing all the talking – or there was no talking at all – but he didn't seem to mind. He always listened, but she got the feeling that he was just trying to find ways to get her to stay there with him longer.

Still, she always felt a little uncomfortable sitting with the son of the man whose death she'd been responsible for. That always made her nervous. Calling him by his first name helped a little, but she still couldn't help feeling guilty when she talked to him. He was particularly tight-lipped about his past. He never once mentioned his family. Had his father's death hurt him so much that he couldn't bring himself to talk about it?

Lucretia wished that Vincent wasn't Dr. Valentine's son. She really liked Vincent – but whenever she was with him, guilt was fidgeting in the back of her mind.

* * *

Vincent was in the mansion's library when his receiver went off. It had stopped receiving location data from Lucretia's emergency transmitter. She hadn't pushed the emergency button, but her device had ceased to function. This meant one of two things: the device was destroyed, or its batteries had gone dead. It was probably the latter, but Vincent was obligated to check anyway. Her last location showed she was on the third floor of the mansion. He climbed the stairs and carefully swept over the level searching for her.

Finally, at the eastern end of the building, he checked the old mansion's ballroom. There she was at the far end, standing on the balcony, resting her elbows on the stone railing. She looked fine; the transmitter's battery had probably just gone dead. Vincent jogged about halfway across the large open room, then slowed to a walk as he approached the balcony. He went and stood beside her, also resting his arms on the railing.

The view from that balcony was magnificent. The full moon lit up the snow-capped peaks surrounding them. The little village in the valley below was warmly lit. Beyond the village, the mountains spread their arms wide to give a clear view of the horizon. A few stars and planets were bright enough that they could still be seen in spite of the brightness of the moon.

"If you look at the mountains, the world seems so vast," she said quietly. "But if you look at the stars, our world seems very small."

Vincent wasn't looking at the view anymore. He was enjoying just looking at her. Her eyes were dancing – so full of wonder and hope.

Uncomfortable under his gaze, Lucretia was happy to comment on the radio's song change. It was now playing a lively old jazz song. "Haven't heard that music in a while," she chuckled. "Last time I ever heard that music played on purpose was in a swing dance class I took back in highschool."

Vincent knew how to dance. The last time the Turks had gone for a while without receiving any assignments, one of the Turks had made a bet that he could get Vincent to dance. It took a couple weeks of scheming and deceit before he managed to get Vincent into the dance studio, but once Vincent started, he didn't want to stop. For one so quiet and reserved, the lessons were a much-needed outlet – as well as a break from his otherwise bloody and violent life. However, the lessons ended abruptly once the Turks began receiving regular assignments again. He hadn't cut loose once since then . . .

Vincent chewed on the tip of his tongue, trying to work up the nerve. Lucky for him it was a long song. Finally, he took off his jacket, grabbed Lucretia's hands, and started to do the Lindy Hop.

"Oh no Vincent! I can't! I haven't danced in ages!" she laughed.

"Why not?" He twirled her in close and spoke into her ear. "No one's watching!"

She giggled and started to dance. After tripping a few times, she finally kicked off her high heels and danced barefoot. The pace of the song went faster and faster, but he never once stepped on her toes – even though he stepped on his own a few times.

It was the best time she'd had in ages. It didn't matter if they stumbled. She felt like she was flying. Vincent was even smiling. It was the first time she'd ever seen him give a real, toothy smile.

By the end of the song, they were both rosy-cheeked and gasping for breath. "I don't think I could do that again without a rest," Lucretia said, placing a hand on her chest and backing away.

Vincent kept hold of her other hand and followed her. "No need to worry – this next one sounds like a Waltz."

"I . . . have no idea how to do the Waltz." She blushed. "Swing dance was the only class I ever took."

"It's alright." He stepped closer. "Just follow my lead."

Since she didn't know the dance, he took smaller steps. A dance of that pace was a good way to cool down. About halfway through the song, Lucretia began to feel sleepy. The exertion of the previous dance had caught up with her. By the end of the song, their Waltz form had completely deteriorated. She was leaning her head on his chest, eyes closed.

The music ended. He turned to look at her. There she stood, staring up at him. Slowly, he began to lean closer. And then, he kissed her – the first time he'd ever kissed anyone – slow, tender, pure, and new. Her lips trembled slightly as she kissed him back. But then, she pulled away and turned her gaze to the floor. Tears started trickling down her cheeks.

She shook her head. "I'm so sorry . . ." She turned and ran out of the room.

He started to go after her. "Lucretia . . ."

"Don't!" she shouted, stopping at the top of the stairs. "I'm sorry." Her bare feet made almost no sound as she scampered down the stairs. Several seconds passed, and then he heard a door slamming shut.

Vincent turned off the radio, picked up his jacket, closed the doors to the balcony, and picked up Lucretia's shoes. Then he went down the stairs and carefully set the shoes in front of her door.

He went into his room for the night, but didn't sleep. He just stared at the ceiling. _What did I do wrong? Why?_

And why not? He was a Turk. She had reacted so coldly when he'd introduced himself so long ago. It was too much to ask her to love someone whose hands were stained with the blood of so many innocents. He'd decided he wasn't going to take any more assassin jobs – he'd resolved to leave the Turks as soon as another assassination order came through – but that didn't change what he had already done. Sinners are sinners. The little girl's green eyes told him so every night.

But even if Lucretia never loved him back, he still loved her.

* * *

The next morning, a package arrived for Lucretia. It was more chemical bottles. He checked them over as usual, and then went downstairs to deliver them. She wasn't in her office or the main Jenova lab, so he went to her personal lab at the end of the hall.

"Lucretia?" His eyes quickly scanned the lab as he walked in. "Anybody here?"

The lab was empty, but something on the large computer screen caught his eye. It was a personnel file – for Grimoire Valentine. The file stated that his current project was studying the Omega/Chaos theory with Dr. Crescent. What Vincent didn't realize was that it was an old file that hadn't been updated in a few months.

Lucretia walked in, carrying a sandwich in one hand. She gasped when she saw Vincent.

"Lucretia, this file–"

"It's none of your business!"

"But it is! Why didn't you tell me you're working with my father? Where is he?"

"Just stop it! I didn't mean for him to die!"

Vincent went pale. "_Die?_"

Lucretia's voice shook. "You didn't know?"

Vincent just shook his head and sat down.

"It was my responsibility," she said quietly. "I obtained a sample of G-substance and brought it back to this lab. I took things too quickly and didn't pay attention . . . it broke containment, and . . . he . . . was gone within minutes."

Vincent looked at the lab around him. So that was how his father had died. It made sense that the man would've died that way, doing the only thing he had ever loved in his life.

"I'm so sorry." Tears started running down her cheeks.

"Don't apologize. It wasn't your fault."

"It is my fault." She ran out of the lab.

Vincent didn't try to follow. He was still reeling from the news. _So he's dead . . . he died in a lab just like this one._ He wasn't quite sure how he should feel about his father's death. They had never been on good terms. Vincent's mom had left because all Grimoire cared about was work. If she hadn't been so unhappy, she never would have gone away, and never would have gotten on that fated plane. She had been staying with family for a while after the divorce when Grimoire decided to give her full custody of Vincent. She was coming back to get Vincent and take him to live with their extended family. After she died, Grimoire never spoke of it. He only spoke to Vincent when it was absolutely necessary. He seemed to want nothing to do with his son – as if he blamed Vincent for her death instead.

The last time he'd spoken to his father was when they had that fight so many years ago. "You never cared about us!" Vincent had said. "You never even cried for mom! Why did you even start a family in the first place, if all you were gonna do was hate us?!"

His father wouldn't even look at him. He just kept his eyes riveted on the report he'd been writing. "That's none of your concern, son. Go to your room and sleep. School starts tomorrow."

That was the night when Vincent left. Even when things got really bad on the streets, he refused to look back. He had to live or die on his own. He was never going back there.

After Vincent got picked up by Shin-Ra, he would occasionally hear his father's name come up. Grimoire was one of the best at what he did.

When Vincent joined the Turks, his superior had asked him about his name. "Valentine, huh? Any relation to the famous researcher?"

"No, sir." Vincent had left that behind him. He refused to waste any time thinking about his father. The past didn't matter.

And now that he was dead . . . _I haven't come this far to let the past drag me down now. Rest quietly in the past, father._

* * *

The days stretched on. Lucretia wouldn't talk to him anymore, except for polite "business" discussion. She still felt so guilty that she couldn't bring herself to look at him.

It had been just a little over two weeks when that day came. The morning started off like any other. The housekeeper brought Lucretia's mail to Vincent. He put on his gloves and a mask and carefully opened each envelope, checking for razor blades, strange powders – anything besides paper. The mail was clear of threats, as usual, and he walked downstairs to her office, prepared to deliver it. The door to the office was closed. He raised his hand and prepared to knock.

"Oh, doctor . . ."

Vincent froze. One voice was Lucretia's. The other was Hojo's. Vincent just stood there, unable to move or breathe. He had a strange sense of falling, as if he was on an elevator with a broken cable.

Numb from head to toe, he finally set the mail down at her door, turned, and went back up the stairs. He slowly walked out of the mansion and into the woods for a walk. He had been walking for quite a while before he finally sat down on a rock and stared out at the trees. _Can I – should I – be angry?_

Of course he should be angry! Hojo was short, butt-ugly – and to top it all off, he had a whiney, nasally voice that would make anyone's skin crawl. Hojo was a complete jerk. The guy had no sense of honor. What the heck was she thinking? No, the creep must've seduced her somehow!

But . . .

_When I kissed her, she ran out of the room crying. When Hojo . . ._

Lucretia seemed like she was happy. She was smiling again. This was what she wanted.

_But I love her! I really love her. I love her . . . enough that I'll do whatever it takes to see her smile again._

Vincent loved her enough to let her go. Lucretia was a beautiful, vibrant soul. She was a person to be treasured: not something to be possessed or conquered. She had chosen someone who made her smile. _If she is happy, then . . . I don't mind._

From that moment forward, Vincent refused to be angry about the situation. When Vincent was around, Lucretia always tried to avoid being close with Hojo, out of kindness. Hojo on the other hand, still wanted to grab her and flaunt it. But Vincent was never once bitter or resentful. _As long as she's smiling . . . I have no right to be angry._

* * *

The days stretched on and on. Snow melted in the mountains and wild flowers bloomed. The sun got up earlier in the morning. About four months had passed.

"Is it true?" Vincent had caught sight of one of the lab reports. They were beginning the human trials with Jenova cells. It was wrong to treat human beings that way.

"Is _what_ true?" Hojo asked, peering down his nose at Vincent.

"That Lucretia – that Dr. Crescent is to take part in this project?"

"It's true," Lucretia answered as she stepped into the room. Her face was stern. "Why are you so surprised?"

"But . . . using your own child . . . for an experiment?!" Lucretia was about three months pregnant. From the report Vincent had read, the trials were already in progress.

"Ha! I don't know what you're implying," Hojo sneered, "but both of us are scientists. We know what we are doing. You are the last person to have any word in this! Now, leave us at once, boy."

"But . . ." Vincent's voice trailed off.

"But what?" Lucretia said coldly, hands clenched at her sides. "If you have something to say, then say it!"

"Are you . . . are you sure . . . that this is what you really want?" He looked into her eyes, pleading.

"Am I sure? _Am I sure?!_" she snapped angrily. "If this only concerns me, then yes, _I am sure!!!_" It was her experiment; none of his business.

"Oh. I . . . I just . . ." _But this doesn't concern just you – not anymore. This concerns the victim of the experiment . . . Please, don't. Don't harm the innocents. Don't make the same mistakes I made. The innocents are here with me, and they're going to haunt me and curse me for the rest of my life. They will haunt you too . . . the Reaper fears no one . . . Don't do this. Don't follow me into Hell._

Afraid to push the issue further, Vincent turned and left. He didn't bring it up again. Hojo was right – Vincent was the last person to have any say in the matter. Vincent wasn't a scientist. He was a gunslinger, an assassin, a bodyguard – just the hired help. And as such, all he did was watch. It just wasn't his place to stop her. He had no right.

* * *

Time passed. The experiment moved forward. The baby grew – far faster than expected. By the time she reached four months, the baby was already showing. However, in spite of the fast growth, the baby appeared to be otherwise normal.

The visions came more and more often, and became more severe. She would double over in pain and sometimes pass out. She could see what was coming. Jenova showed her what was going to happen to her child as a result of her actions.

The child would have an intense connection with Jenova. Jenova could not raise herself from her physical slumber, so the child would do Jenova's work for her. Jenova had come to destroy the world. The child would rain down pain and suffering on the planet.

Lucretia could see him – her son. She wouldn't get to be with her baby. Hojo would raise the child, using his knowledge of human experimentation to fortify the child's body. Her son would murder many people, and no one could stand in his way. Lucretia saw him standing in the ruins of a destroyed city, still burning. His sword was always, always bloody.

In the end, she could see him standing in the midst of a great desert with a black materia glowing in his hand. A plague of fire and meteors rained down from the heavens. Jenova smiled upon him. He would bring on the apocalypse, and his name would be called _Sephiroth._

Horrified by what she was seeing, Lucretia spent many sleepless nights staring out her window. She was so afraid – afraid of what might happen if she took action, and afraid of what she knew would happen if she didn't.

Finally, Lucretia went to Hojo. It was time for the final injection of Jenova cells. "You're a bit early this time," Hojo said as she walked into the lab.

"I need to back out of the experiment."

Those visions were of the future. In all the animal trials, the first six injections of Jenova cells resulted in little change in the animal's body. It was with the seventh treatment that the results always changed dramatically – a sort of overload effect. The baby had recently undergone the sixth treatment; there might still be a chance to stave off the apocalypse. The future hadn't happened yet. She could still stop the bloodshed.

"What?" Hojo took off his glasses and glared at her.

"I refuse the final treatment."

"Is there some logical, scientific reason why you want to do this?" His tone was threatening.

Lucretia sat down and grasped his hand, speaking softly. "I just . . . I can't go through with this. I don't want to do this to our baby anymore. We can raise him together – be a family. But, if you don't want to be part of that, that's okay too . . . I'm ready to take care of him by myself. I just want my baby."

Hojo pulled his hand away from her. "It's not a baby. It's a fetus. I did not think you would succumb to animal instinct so easily," he snapped. "The experiment will continue as planned."

Lucretia stood up. "But this is my baby! I've decided to pull out! I'm not asking your permission. I'm giving you notice."

Hojo slapped her. "It is not your decision to make," he said as he grabbed her and started dragging her towards an operating table.

She fought as best she could, but to no avail. She was just a geek with no martial training, and Hojo – although short – was very stout and strong. He wrestled her onto the table and strapped her into the restraints.

"It was _never_ your decision to make, really." He licked his lips and began to fill the syringe. "I always get what I want. No one stands in my way. And right now, I want to complete the experiment on _my_ fetus. The Jenova research is quite promising – I want the powers of God, and I will get what I want."

"No!!!" she shouted. "Stop it! Don't do this! Jenova wants to kill the world! Just listen to me! You have to stop this!!!"

"Don't make such a fuss. No one will hear you anyway," he said as he completed the last injection. Since the project was in its final stages and Lucretia's baby was the only test subject, all the lab assistants – along with Marshall, who had been Hojo's bodyguard – had been sent away. Vincent's assignment was broadened to keeping watch over both of the remaining scientists left on the project. Shin-Ra never paid any more staff than was absolutely necessary. Hojo, Lucretia, Vincent, and the housekeeper were the only ones occupying the large mansion.

With the procedure completed, Hojo let her go. "Well, that's it for the day, dear. Rest easy."

She ran out the door and locked herself inside her room, weeping bitterly. She could feel the Jenova cells doing something strange to her body; every blood vessel in her body ached. The final injection also brought on a new wave of visions from Jenova, but she wasn't lucky enough to pass out this time. Her mind was clearer than ever, and the visions wouldn't stop. Thousands of souls were crying out. Rivers of blood flooded the earth. Fire rained down from the heavens, and Jenova smiled. Death, suffering, and destruction – over and over and over. She closed her eyes, but the visions played across the inside of her eyelids, and the aching in her limbs wouldn't go away. There was no escape. Jenova laughed at her.

Meanwhile, Vincent was sitting in the mansion's library, reading peacefully. On a nearby wooden stand, an antique phonograph was playing classical music – Tchaikovsky, to be exact. As a bodyguard, he was given one day off per week. He always liked to spend the time absorbed in books.

The housekeeper came running up, breathless and teary-eyed. She had been cleaning in the hallway when she heard Hojo and Lucretia arguing, so she peeked in the door. She'd seen the whole thing, and relayed it all to Vincent.

"Miss Lucretia's upstairs right now crying somethin' terrible, Mr. Valentine! You've got to do somethin'! You've got to help 'er!"

Vincent sprang out of his seat and ran to Lucretia's room. He found her huddled in a corner, crying and vainly swatting at the air, trying to push the visions away. He ran over and held her close, trying to comfort her.

"It'll be alright," he spoke softly into her ear. "I'll get you out of this place. We'll leave this all behind. Just hang on. It'll be alright." He couldn't stand to see her like this. _Why didn't I speak out sooner? I should have stopped her – stopped all of this – back in the beginning._

Jenova's effect could not be undone now, but Vincent's words made Lucretia think. Maybe there was still hope. Maybe Hojo was the key. If she was able to escape him somehow . . . if her son was raised by people who loved him, maybe he could fight against Jenova. Maybe the world would not die.

"Don't let Hojo get my son," she said through the tears. "Awful things will happen–" She stopped momentarily as another wave of pain hit her. "Just please, don't let him take my baby."

Vincent held her tight and kissed her hair. "Don't worry. I won't let it happen. I'll get you both out of this place. I promise. Just hang on."

Her visions waned. _Maybe there is hope. Thank you, Vincent._

Slowly her tears subsided. The pain began to dull; whatever changes the Jenova cells were making inside her body were beginning to slow down. She was exhausted. After so many sleepless nights, she finally fell into a deep sleep, in the arms of the one who dared to give her hope. He would help her get the baby away from Hojo. Sephiroth didn't have to become evil.

Vincent quietly carried her over to the bed and pulled the blankets over her. "I won't let anyone hurt you anymore," he said quietly. "I promise."

Her tears had sparked a burning rage in Vincent. He walked down to the lab, ready to do what he now wished he'd done months ago.

He found Hojo sitting peacefully in the main Jenova lab. The mad scientist was sitting at a computer, typing away, as if nothing had happened.

"When a lady says no, that means no!!!" Vincent yelled, grabbing Hojo by the collar and slamming him against the wall. "They're both human beings, you know. Did you ever think about that? They're human beings! You can't treat them like that – and I'm not going to let you treat them like that anymore. The project is over." Vincent drew his gun and pushed the barrel into Hojo's neck. "You're not going to hurt anyone ever again."

Hojo smiled. "What are you going to do, Vincent Valentine? Are you going to murder me? Are you going to shoot a helpless, unarmed man in cold blood? I'm a human being too, you know."

Vincent froze. If it had been a year ago, before his last assassination job, he wouldn't have hesitated to pull the trigger. But now that he'd vowed to change his ways, he couldn't just shoot Hojo – not this way. Hojo wasn't threatening the lives of either Vincent or Lucretia at that moment. Hojo had been sitting peacefully at his computer when Vincent walked in and grabbed him. Vincent was the aggressor – the attacker. Shooting Hojo wasn't right at this point. It would be vengeance, not defense.

Unable to pull the trigger, Vincent settled for making an arrest. It was highly unusual for Turks to make arrests – they usually just shot people instead – but they still had the authority to bring people in for offenses against the company. Vincent had been ordered as protection for a Shin-Ra employee, and Hojo had assaulted that employee.

"You will not go near her again," Vincent rumbled. "I'm taking you into custody. If you try anything that even resembles a threat to her, I'll have more than enough of an excuse to make sure you die slowly and painfully." As he spoke, Vincent kept hold of Hojo's collar; Hojo's feet were still off the ground. Vincent put away his gun and reached into his pocket for handcuffs. But in his anger, Vincent had missed the signs. He made a crucial mistake and underestimated his opponent. He didn't notice the gun in the pocket of Hojo's labcoat.

Without warning, lead bit into Vincent's chest. Vincent stumbled as the second shot went off, until he fell against the desk. That desk behind him was the only thing holding him up. Vincent tried to pull his gun back out. Hot lead drilled into his right shoulder. His fingers wouldn't hold the gun anymore.

"No one defies me," Hojo growled.

Vincent refused to give up. He'd promised Lucretia. He tried to reach down and grab the gun with his left hand, but another bullet burned its way into him. He couldn't breathe.

"I said no one defies me!" Hojo shouted as he walked towards Vincent. "That includes you!"

_But I promised her._ Vincent leaned forward and tried to take a run at Hojo. Even though he was stumbling, determination propelled him forward.

Three more shots rang out, and Vincent fell forward. _I promised her._ But his body wouldn't respond. _I promised . . ._

Wakened by the gunshots, Lucretia rushed down the stairs, gasping in horror when she saw the scene. _This can't happen._

As Vincent lay motionless, Hojo slowly started putting his gun away. "See? No one defies me," he growled.

"No! Vincent!" Lucretia shouted, running to him. He was choking. She tried to help him to a sitting position, but it didn't help. He coughed a little, and breathed no more. Lucretia wept bitterly and hugged his body, slowly rocking back and forth. _This can't be happening. This can't happen!_

Hojo just laughed. "Now nothing will stand in the way of our research, my dear," he said before leaving the room.

_I can't let this happen. There must be some way . . ._ Suddenly she froze. _Chaos!_

Dragging Vincent down the hall to her lab area was much more difficult than she thought it would be. Vincent was a tall guy, but he'd always carried himself in such a way that he looked light somehow. He never walked heavily. Dead weight was far different from living, conscious weight.

_No, he can't be dead. I won't let it happen. Not this way._

By the time she reached the lab, she was exhausted. She was only six months pregnant, but she looked – and felt – more like she was close to nine. The baby had grown fast. It took everything she had to heave his body into one of the containment chambers. She quickly collected a sample of his blood and processed it. He tested positive as a carrier for the Chaos gene._ This can work. Just hang on a little longer . . . I need more time!_

His cells were already beginning to decay. Lucretia connected the tubes between the G-substance chamber and Vincent's chamber. She checked once more to make sure both chambers and their connections were tightened down, and then prepared for the transfer. Her finger hovered over the start button._ Forgive me, Vincent. I'm so sorry!_

The G-substance rushed in and enveloped his body swiftly, as if it were hungry. The turbulent mass swirled around him and seemed to grow. Suddenly, his heart monitor went wild. It was beating, but way too fast. He went into a seizure. Fumbling with the buttons, Lucretia activated the vacuum as quickly as she could, pulling all the excess G-substance out. She re-sealed both chambers and started pumping breathable air into Vincent's chamber. Heartbeat and respiration began to stabilize.

Still shaking, Lucretia turned around and walked over to his containment tube. She gasped at the sight. His skin was reddish-black from head to toe; the exposure to raw G-substance had caused many of his blood vessels to rupture. He looked like a black plague victim. His eyes were open, but unresponsive. Their bright ocean-blue color was gone, now replaced by a dark bloody-red. She felt sick inside. _What have I done?_

Lucretia carefully opened the chamber and hooked him up to a respirator and IV. She noticed that his gunshot wounds were not bleeding. His skin, although still reddish-black, was not bleeding either. He was already beginning to heal. It seemed there was hope after all. She sealed the chamber again and began the sequence to hoist it upright and fill it with medical fluids. It was similar to the treatment used on burn victims. And then she waited. Exhausted both physically and mentally, she soon fell asleep.

She was awakened by the complaints of her stomach. It had been quite a while since she'd eaten. She had fallen asleep on the cold floor of the lab, right in front of her desk – giving her a terrible back ache.

Slowly, she dragged herself to her feet and stepped towards Vincent's chamber to look at him. His gunshot wounds appeared to be healed. The broken blood vessels in his skin had also healed, but the paleness of death did not leave him. His face remained a chilly shade of white. The color in his eyes didn't go away either – the blood appeared to have permanently stained them. Lucretia was awed to see that Vincent's new symbiote had pushed out the bullets; they lay at the bottom of the chamber. Chaos was indeed a powerful entity. For now, at least, it seemed that Chaos slumbered; perhaps it was focusing all its energy on caring for its new-found host. Heartbeat, respiration, and blood pressure all remained steady.

Lucretia prepared to go upstairs to the kitchen to grab some food. She wasn't really in the mood to eat, but knew it was necessary for the baby's sake. She paused before opening the lab door. Part of her was deathly afraid that Hojo would be out there waiting for her, but somehow, she just felt safe. Mother's intuition told her that now was the time to go upstairs.

As she walked past a mirror in one of the hallways, her own reflection stopped her dead in her tracks. Her arms, hands, and clothes were covered in Vincent's blood. What scared her most was the wild look in her own eyes. She truly looked like a mad scientist.

She detoured to her room to get cleaned up and grab a couple of pillows. The mansion was deathly quiet. Hojo was nowhere to be seen. She thought she heard an engine start and looked out the window. Hojo was driving away.

_Hojo . . ._ Lucretia went looking for the housekeeper. She had to warn the poor woman.

As Lucretia walked into the library, she saw that she was already too late. The housekeeper was dead on the floor.

Working quickly, Lucretia carried several loads of food, bottled water, and baby supplies with her down to the lab – about a month's worth for two adults and her baby, she figured – and locked herself in. The door was big and heavy; the entire lab was strong enough to contain a nuclear blast. She had specifically requested a lab like this, fearing the unknown properties of G-substance. She was in possession of the only key to that lab. There shouldn't be any way that Hojo could get in. She typed up a letter to Shin-Ra, explaining the situation. _Message sent._ One month should be more than enough time for help to arrive.

What she didn't know was that Shin-Ra didn't care. President Shin-Ra wanted to rule the world, and he saw the creation of super-soldiers as his means to conquer the last of those who opposed him. He fully endorsed the Jenova project and the use of Lucretia's baby, regardless of whether or not she consented. As for Vincent and the housekeeper – Shin-Ra didn't mind sacrificing a few pawns in search of ultimate power. The company never sent any help.

The days stretched on, and Lucretia waited. _If Dr. Valentine's theories were correct . . . I have to wait for Chaos to show itself._

One night, she awoke to the sound of a terrifying roar. Chaos was wide awake. It was truly magnificent to behold.

Lucretia immediately pumped Chaos with anesthetic. She put dose after dose into the containment chamber, until Chaos finally slowed in its movements. Another dose paralyzed the beast. She moved quickly, hoping to finish before the tranquilizer wore off. She opened the containment chamber and placed the protomateria in Chaos.

The Cetra – the ancient ones who once ruled the world – had been given great power, and they grew arrogant. They designed a sort of "safety net" in case the world was struck by a disaster. They created Omega and Chaos.

Omega was the one who would gather all life into itself. It would take everything on the planet, both sentient and non, and collect it into itself as pure life force – that mysterious, indescribable thing that causes cells to continue functioning. The countless bodies would be destroyed and their life force poured into a single vessel. Omega would then launch itself from the planet and travel out into the depths of space, seeking a new world where it would take root and seed Eden.

However, Omega was massive, and had to remain stationary. It required a reaper. Chaos was the one who sweep across the world, harvesting all living things and placing them inside Omega. Chaos was the dark harbinger. The rising of Chaos meant the destruction of all life as they knew it.

But there was one failsafe the ancients had made: the protomateria. The protomateria was an ancient materia that was made to control Chaos. It would make sure that Chaos lived as a symbiote, rather than a parasite, within the host body. It would allow the host to rein in the beast – and if the host did not agree with Chaos' true purpose, the host could deny the harvest and let the world continue. The human host could stop the doomsday machine.

_Soul wrought of terra corrupt,_

_Quelling impurity,_

_Purging the stream_

_To beckon forth an ultimate fate._

_Behold mighty Chaos,_

_Omega's squire to the lofty heavens._

* * *

With the protomateria safely inside Vincent, she sealed him into containment again. Chaos still slumbered. Praying that the theories were correct, Lucretia waited patiently, hoping he would learn how to control the Chaos beast soon. "Just a little longer, Vincent. Then I can let you out."

She gasped. Clear liquid spilled around her feet. _The baby's coming._ She had been dreading this moment. She didn't want to give birth alone, holed up in that dim lab. She was terrified. She'd never had a baby before – and on top of that, this would be no ordinary birth. She was only six months along, and the baby had grown so fast . . . the baby had received the final dose of Jenova cells. This son would be far different from all others. She knew from the visions that her son would not look deformed, although his eyes would be strange-looking. But she never saw what happened to herself. What had the final dose of Jenova cells done to _her_ body? Was all the pain some sort of pre-destruction stage? One thing she knew from the visions was that she wasn't there when the baby was growing up. _But I can change that . . . I'm changing it right now. I won't let him near my baby. Help should be on its way._

The contractions were increasing in frequency. She was sweating and shaking from fear._ Am I going to die? I want to be there for my baby!_

At that moment, the door to the lab opened. Hojo stood in the doorway, holding up a key card. The timing couldn't have been worse.

_But how? There's only one key to my lab, and I have it here with me!_

"I thought you might try something like this, my dear," he said as he walked towards her. "Shin-Ra makes these labs, and Shin-Ra approves of my work. They were kind enough to give me a spare when I told them you'd ventured down here."

"Get out of my lab, Hojo." Her voice shook.

"Silence!" he snapped. "Haven't you realized by now that I'm the one giving orders?"

Hojo noticed Vincent. He walked closer to the computer screen, where her thesis was displayed. "Ah . . . ha ha. Omega . . . and Chaos?" He looked back at Vincent, laughing. "I see! Another experiment! You're using this fine specimen to finish your thesis, aren't you, doctor?"

"No . . . It's not like that."

"Once a scientist, always a scientist, I must say. How happy this fellow must be – helping his beloved, even after he's begun rotting away!" He laughed. "We're birds of a feather, you and I!"

_No! No, I'm not like you. This is no experiment. This is his life! I couldn't just sit back and let him die!_

Hojo noticed there was something strange about the way she was bent forward, sweating. He looked at the water on the floor and figured it out. "Perfect timing, isn't it?"

She fought him, but had no more success than the last time she struggled. The throes of childbirth rendered her more helpless than ever. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her down the hallway. She was strapped to the table again.

That day there was a solar eclipse. The sun turned its back on the world as the mother of the apocalypse gave birth in chains. A few feet away, Jenova's eyes opened for the very first time, glowing bright orange-red. Jenova was pleased. In the other room, Vincent awakened Chaos within him and began clawing at the containment chamber in desperation. It was all coming true. Rivers of blood, cities burned to the ground, and the rain of fire. This was the beginning of the end.

_There was a war in the heavens._

_The angels fought the dragon_

_and her servants._

_The dragon lost the battle_

_and was forced out of heaven._

_She fell through the sky_

_like a great star of bitterness,_

_burning as she went._

_This great dragon, the ancient serpent,_

_called Jenova_

_was thrown down to the earth,_

_where she shall vomit destruction_

_upon all things living._

_Humanity shall bear her a son_

_who will be her hands and mouth,_

_and his name shall be called Sephiroth._

* * *

"Please," she begged him, "please let me hold him – just once."

Hojo had cut the umbilical cord and was turning the baby over and around, examining him. "Not bad for the first trial," he said proudly.

"Please – let me hold my baby." Even though her hands were bound to the table, her fingers reached, straining.

The baby looked straight at her, turquoise eyes glinting. His hair was silvery-white. He just gazed at her, unmoving. He didn't squirm like most babies. He just stared, studying her face. Then he looked over at Jenova and reached his hand out to her. Hojo started to carry him away.

"No! Please, let me have my baby! Don't do this! I want my baby!"

That was the last time she ever saw her child.

When Hojo had secured the baby, he came back and released Lucretia from her restraints. "I don't need you anymore," he said coldly as he walked away. "You're free to go."

She just laid there. She had nowhere else to go.

_I have to save my baby . . . I have to stop the end._ She slowly got up and left the lab, searching for her child. Looking back and forth down the hall, she saw only one room that was closed and locked. She went to it and pounded on the door. She could hear Sephiroth crying on the other side. Exhausted, she turned and leaned on the door, then slid to the floor. _I want my baby._

She heard a muffled groan coming from one of the other rooms, followed by a sickening crunch. Had Hojo done something to himself? Lucretia felt ill thinking about what else it might be. But she had to see. When she looked through the doorway, she immediately wished she had never looked.

Vincent was strapped to a table. His left forearm had been cut off and Hojo was preparing to attach a robotic prosthesis. Vincent was wide awake. His entire body was tense, and his breathing was shallow and rapid. Crimson eyes were fixed on the ceiling, unblinking.

Jenova cells had made the child strong, but not strong enough for Hojo's liking. He would need to experiment with ways to fortify the child's body. However, he wasn't going to waste a perfectly good Jenova child on initial experiments. He would use Vincent as the prototype.

She'd saved Vincent's life – and for what? So Hojo could torture him? With the strength of Chaos now placed inside him, Vincent would be able to endure much from Hojo. _What have I done?_

There was nothing she could do to stop Hojo. She'd fought him already and lost – twice. There was no hope. This time, the future was set in stone. Hojo had her baby, and the end was coming. There was nothing she could do to stop any of it. She was trapped.

Desperate, she ran up to Vincent's room and tore the place apart. As a Turk, he ought to have some extra ones hidden somewhere. Then she found one: a Colt .45 revolver.

She put the barrel in her mouth, closed her eyes, and pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening. The pain was exquisite. But then the pain subsided. She set the gun down and reached to feel the back of her head. It was regenerating rapidly. Lucretia had been connected to her child via the umbilical cord, and the Jenova cell injections had affected her body as well as the baby's. Jenova just laughed at her.

Lucretia put the barrel in her mouth and squeezed the trigger, over and over again. She kept squeezing until the gun was emptied. _Bang, bang, click, click, click . . ._ She turned and threw the empty gun through the stained glass window and screamed in a rage. Jenova wouldn't let her go so easily. Through the broken window, she could see the sun setting.

Lucretia got in the car and left, heading for one of the caves. She would make one final journey. It was a cave – hidden behind a waterfall – near where she grew up. When she was a child, it was a place where she went to hide when she was upset or just wanted to get away. It was always such a peaceful place. That would be her final resting place.

She had the materia needed to complete the process. It was dark when she reached the cave, and she used the glow of the materia to light her way. This was the place. The cave hadn't changed much over the years. She continued forward, deeper into the cave. _There it is._ A quiet, clear mako pool. _If I can't die, then I'll be sealed away forever. It won't be long until the end of the world anyway. I just don't want to have to face this – I'm not strong enough for it._

She stepped into the middle of the pool, holding the materia high above her head. It shone brightly as the process began. _Sephiroth, I do not ask you to forgive me for delivering you into the hands of Jenova and Hojo. Only know that I am sorry, my child. Vincent, I do not ask you to forgive me for bringing you into this, or for all you have and will suffer. Just know that I am sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen . . . I'm so sorry . . ._

Mako crystals rose up around her, closing her in until there was no air between her body and the mako. She closed her eyes and ceased to move or even breathe. It was done. She would sleep until the end of the world shattered her crystal coffin.

* * *

Meanwhile, Vincent was unable to escape Hojo. The experiments continued. Sometimes he was awake, sometimes he was asleep – but either way, each waking moment was still torture. If the experiments weren't causing him pain, he was wondering what fate had befallen Lucretia. He could sometimes hear the baby crying, but there was no sight or sound to indicate Lucretia was in the mansion at all. Was she dead? _But I promised her! I promised!_

At first, Vincent had hopes of escaping and taking the child out with him. Perhaps he could still fulfill half of his promise that way. Vincent believed he deserved some suffering after all he'd done – but no innocent child should have to endure such horrors. Vincent wanted to get the baby out somehow. However, in spite of Vincent's aspirations, the experiments went on and Vincent remained powerless; his tormentor refused to give him any footholds. Eventually, the baby's cries sounded more and more like a young boy's. Then one day they disappeared altogether, when Sephiroth was moved to another facility.

Vincent lost all sense of time. He never saw the sky even once after he was shot; night and day were the same in that pit below the mansion. He spent a good portion of his time there incoherent and half-drugged as Hojo tested artificial blood cells in his search for the perfect immune system. Vincent had no idea how long he'd been there, but it felt like years. There was no end to it, no light at the end of the tunnel. Eventually, he crumbled from within. He completely gave up on any hope of escape from Hojo. He would go on like this until the end of time. The torment had broken him.

_I have so many sins . . . blood of innocents, failing to speak out, and broken promises to the one I love. I stood by and did nothing when I was most needed, and her tears – and the child's – were the price. All of that was my sin. And this . . . this is my punishment . . ._

Finally, the day came. Hojo had gotten lax on security. Most of the experiments with Vincent were over, and Hojo was busy using the perfected techniques on Sephiroth. He didn't care much about Vincent anymore – Vincent was old news. Hojo only returned to the mansion to toy with him occasionally.

There was some sort of electrical failure in the lab. The lights were flickering, and the door kept locking and unlocking itself. Vincent grabbed the handle at just the right moment and pulled it open. _Is this even real?_

Still half-drugged from the most recent set of injections, Vincent crept out of the lab and went outside. He heard Hojo coming. His sense of balance was off and his vision was cloudy; he could barely walk, let alone run. If he ran to the forest, he'd be caught before he even reached the treeline.

Searching frantically, Vincent went stumbled off the front porch, heading for the side of the mansion. He spotted the doors to the cellar. They were bolted shut, but the experiments had changed his body. Using his metal claw, he pushed the doors open like they were nothing and dove inside. He grabbed anything and everything he could to stack them in front of the doors, trying to keep Hojo out. Hojo was pounding furiously on the doors, trying to get in. Vincent held his breath. Hojo eventually went away; he wasn't interested in trying very hard to go after Vincent at this point. However, to make sure that Vincent didn't escape and interfere with his plans, Hojo quickly began making arrangements to have the cellar sealed off.

When the noise stopped, Vincent took the time to look around the cellar. The place was dimly lit by the sunlight coming through the cracks in the doors. It appeared to be a storage place for the mansion. There was dusty furniture, gardening tools, some old paintings – and a few empty coffins. They were different shapes and sizes, and were made out of intricately-carved wood. Age had eaten away at the fine silk lining, but it was still obvious that these had once been constructed for the Shin-Ra elite.

There was one in particular that was just the right size. Vincent slowly walked towards it, then pulled the lid off. The lid had kept most of the dust out and preserved the silk. Vincent ran his fingers lightly over it, taking care not to let his calloused hand catch on the silk. He could feel the nice, thick layer of padding beneath the silk. So soft. So cool. So dark. So welcoming. So . . . fitting.

Oh, how his body ached. His head hurt. His heart hurt. The world hurt! He just wanted to rest, to escape the world in its entirety. He hadn't the will to try to leave the cellar; there was no place in the world he could bear to think of living in. He wanted to leave it all behind. He was so broken inside.

Vincent quietly climbed into the coffin and closed the lid. _So many sins – and this, this is my punishment. I do not ask for forgiveness, for this is what I deserve._

_Let me die . . . and if I cannot die, let me be buried here until I become nothing. Let me sleep._

* * *

About 30 years later, Vincent Valentine was discovered and awakened from his coffin by team AVALANCHE. At first, Vincent refused to go with them, wishing to be allowed to sleep – until he heard what they were fighting against. The team was trying to stop Sephiroth, who had already killed many people. Most of Lucretia's visions had come true already. Sephiroth, who believed Jenova was his mother, had set out to use the power of the black materia to bring down METEOR (the rain of fire), which would destroy the planet and allow Sephiroth to absorb the life force of everything on the planet. Sephiroth believed this would turn him into a god. Vincent, feeling responsible for the events that led to this, joined AVALANCHE and went with them to stop Sephiroth. The team succeeded in defeating Sephiroth. He never returned to try to destroy the world again.

In the midst of their fight to stop Sephiroth, the team encountered Professor Hojo, who had injected himself with Jenova cells and gone mad. They mortally wounded him and left him for dead. However, due to the effect of the Jenova cells, he was able to recover and start up his experiments again. Over time, Shin-Ra collapsed, but Hojo continued his work in one of the company's abandoned underground labs.

While team AVALANCHE traversed the planet in their fight with Sephiroth, they stumbled across the cave where Lucretia had sealed herself. Vincent later came back several times to visit her. He would sit there and gaze upon her, and talk to her, but she never responded. She remained sealed.

After Sephiroth was destroyed, Vincent left AVALANCHE and had very little contact with the team after that. He was very reclusive and never "connected" with anyone following his awakening from the coffin. The members of AVALANCHE were his only "friends." He kept them at a distance, but they accepted that he was quiet and did not seem to mind. The only one he ever opened his heart to was Lucretia when he would visit her at the cave.


End file.
